


i'm gonna miss us when it's over

by doofusface



Category: Mr. Iglesias (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Best Friends, Exes, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Gen, Idiots in Love, Male-Female Friendship, Misunderstandings, Poor Life Choices, Reunions, Second Chances, Slow Burn, Sobriety, Time Skips, it's okay it's gna be nice at the end dw, post-college
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-23
Updated: 2020-10-23
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:08:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27158404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doofusface/pseuds/doofusface
Summary: The big problem with dating your best friend is this:Sometimes…You break up.
Relationships: (and another one but it's a surprise), Gabe Iglesias/Jackie Ontiveros, Grace & Lorenzo & Marisol & Mikey & Rakeem & Rita & Walt (Mr. Iglesias), Marisol Fuentes & Gabe Iglesias, Marisol Fuentes & Mikey Gutierrez & Jackie Ontiveros, Marisol Fuentes/Mikey Gutierrez, Mikey Gutierrez & Gabe Iglesias, Walt Dobbs & Marisol Fuentes & Mikey Gutierrez & Grace Li & Lorenzo Webber
Comments: 14
Kudos: 73





	i'm gonna miss us when it's over

**Author's Note:**

> title modified from alessia cara's "october" :>

###  **_part i._ **

It’s 7:21.

The hoodie’s at the bottom of the pile.

His hoodie.

Marisol figures there’s a reason she hides it there—under her largest, thickest, most unused blanket.

Figures the reason is she has no intention of getting rid of it, but she also has no intention of letting her roommates see her wearing it again around their apartment. 

Proving to be a struggle now that they’re all packing up to leave for the last time, though.

There’s a knock on her door and she shoves the closest luggage bag in front of her closet before anyone can chide her for holding on to an ex’s article of clothing for almost three years.

(It’s a problem, but she’s dealing with it.)

(…That’s a lie.)

“Hey, Marisol, we’ll meet you outside, okay?” 

She sighs, as quiet as possible, in relief—her roommates are leaving for home earlier, and saying their goodbyes by the taxis at least spares her from any awkward explanations about…him.

"I'll be there in a sec!" Marisol yells.

_Okay._

_Stay calm._

_Almost out of here._

She moves her luggage back to its original spot.

It drags the hoodie down with it.

Marisol stares at it—red and gold and very Wilson High.

The sleeve's torn a third of the way up from when he'd gotten caught on the fence when he tried to show off his parkour skills to her after work. There's an oil stain on the back from when Grace had thrown a hotdog at a school barbecue, starting a food fight with the honors section. A faded ink blot when his pen exploded while writing stage cues in his scriptbook during senior year. A loose cuff where the seam broke after he tugged it off too fast when she was feeling cold.

It's his.

And she's nauseous knowing he's going to be there when she gets home.

* * *

Walt sits in his car—an aged Honda Civic he’d bought with his own money, slapped silly with weed stickers and Banana Slugs flags—with his window down, flipping through the radio stations lazily. The parking lot’s uncharacteristically empty, save for a few spots dotted nearer to the pier.

It’s almost 4 PM.

He takes his vape pen, flips it around his fingers, and sets it back down.

(Maybe he’s regretting going sober after the first real hit, and maybe there’s a family picture by his rearview mirror to remind him that that’s a total lie.)

The clock flashes 4:00.

Walt figures now’s the time to call, because she’s never la—

“Thought you threw that out,” Marisol says, not bothering to tap his door.

He snorts. “It’s not for weed.”

“Your entire car—”

“I promise I haven’t touched a joint,” Walt says, frowning.

Marisol smirks. “Good. Wouldn’t want your mom to worry.”

“Where’s your stuff?”

“You think I wouldn’t stop by my house to drop off my stuff?”

“Six hour trip.”

_Shrug_. “So I left at 8. It’s like you don’t know me.”

Walt shuts off his car, laughing as he steps out. “Dang, it’s like you forgot I’ve barely seen you in the last two years.”

* * *

“Have you talked to Lorenzo?” Marisol asks when they make it to the agreed upon restaurant—a new place at the start of the boardwalk, with not enough street cred to influence their opinion of the food.

4:15. They have a fair wait before the rest arrive, but it’s starting to sink in—the sounds and sights of Long Beach all around them, dragging them back to Before.

Before all this—degrees and jobs and… _mistakes_.

So many mistakes.

(Marisol didn’t notice it for a while now, what with working near campus over most summers, but _oof_.

She’s missed home.)

“Not yet,” Walt says, feigning nonchalance. “You?”

It’s a tentative question, considering everything.

Marisol frowns at him on their way to their seats. “Dude.”

“What?”

“Still?”

“He’s been in Massachusetts!” Walt says, hands out. He squints. “You can’t talk. You haven’t even called—”

“That is not the same thing,” Marisol says tightly.

If there weren’t other patrons, well…

One could hear a pin drop.

“…Sorry,” Walt mumbles, adjusting in his seat. He picks up the menu. “Um. Drinks?”

“I’m driving. You don’t drink.”

“I can get a Coke.”

Marisol sighs, head resting in her hands. “…Sorry.”

“That was my bad.”

“I don’t know why I thought today would be good, with the drive and—”

Walt chair squeaks. “Grace is here.”

Marisol straightens, a grin spreading when she spots their group’s little firecracker. “Grace!”

She’s in her signature bright orange summer sweater, and if you didn’t know she’d just graduated from college you’d assume she was headed for a tutor, what with her beat up backpack and jean shorts. “Drip tray, represent!” Grace yells, laughing as she hurries to their table.

“G!” Walt grins, clapping hands with her.

Grace squints. “You’re still—”

“On the wagon, broski.”

“Did you talk to Lorenzo?”

“Why does everyone keep asking—”

“Because you need to talk to Lorenzo,” Marisol says, snickering.

“I know she doesn’t really have a right to say anything,” Grace starts, and Marisol’s jaw drops and she gets ready to retort, “but you really should talk to Lorenzo.”

Walt kicks lightly at nothing under the table. “He’s coming here, I’ll talk to him later.”

“What are you, five?” Marisol asks, watching his swinging leg.

“What are you, sixteen?” Walt throws back, crossing his arms and sticking his tongue out.

She gawks at him.

“Would be nice if you didn’t murder each other before it gets mega awkward,” Grace says, monotone, to the wall across them.

Marisol glares daggers at her. “It’s not going to be mega awkward.”

Grace’s brows raise. 

The audacity.

The sheer audacity her friends have.

She laughs, as mockingly as possible. “Roll call, shall we?” She points at Walt. “Big fight with his best friend a month ago because of an opinion on alcohol usage, which his mother struggles with, and is the reason he doesn’t want to risk any addictions.” And points at Marisol. “Broke up with her high school sweetheart three years ago, still refuses to talk about it, and definitely does not know how to function whenever he’s in the same room.”

“Completely unequal comparisons,” Marisol says simply, crossing her arms. “For one, Walt’s thing with Lorenzo could’ve been fixed in an hour, but someone’s not ready to be a big boy.” Pause. “And I know how to function, thank you very much.”

“You stared at him the entire time during Mr. Iglesias and Ms. Ontiveros’ wedding,” Grace deadpans.

“Okay, first of all, Lorenzo should be the one apologizing,” Walt says, completely blowing over whatever Marisol was about to say. “And, second of all, like, I was right.”

“That’s the same point,” the girls say in unison.

Walt motions to them. “So you agree.”

Marisol shakes her head and turns back to Grace. “I was paying attention.”

Grace flips the menu up, covering her face. “Mhm. To _He Who Must Not Be Named_.”

“Grace.”

Down goes the menu. “You can’t even say his name.”

Walt’s eyes widen slightly. He watches in silence, stilling as the air thickens. 

Marisol clears her throat.

Grace smirks.

_Ahem_. “…Mikey,” Marisol says, beyond uneven.

(Walt breathes.)

“When’s the last time you said that out loud?” Grace asks, softening. 

Marisol’s eyes dart to the menu, suddenly very interested in the dessert section.

“Marisol.”

“I’ll talk to him,” Marisol says. It’s quiet. Different.

_Broken_.

“You didn’t have to come today,” Walt says carefully.

Marisol shakes her head. She skims the menu, raises her hand. “We promised. I keep my promises.”

Grace sighs, watching her friend as their server makes his way over. She exhales, leaning back on her chair. “And you’ll talk to him.”

“We’re friends. I can talk to him.”

Grace looks at Walt.

Walt looks at Grace.

Marisol gives her order.

The clock hits 4:25.

* * *

Lorenzo watches them from outside the restaurant, hands deep in his pockets as he walks back and forth on the boardwalk. 

He’s early, technically. They’re supposed to meet him at a fro-yo place in twenty minutes, then if they’re lucky, Mikey’s supposed to show up after his rehearsal while they’re all having fun debating partying and completely derail any progress they’ll have on that front.

Because it'll be Mikey in the same space as Marisol, and that’s how life just ended up, somehow. Topsy-turvy and barely making sense.

Lorenzo checks his phone again.

5:10.

He looks inside—his friends call the server over. Marisol flicks Walt on the head for something. He barely reacts, so Lorenzo knows it’s more of a playful reprimanding than anything. Grace checks her phone and starts tapping away, but when she shoves it back in her pocket his phone doesn’t buzz.

To Mikey, then, he figures.

Lorenzo smiles.

It’s been a while.

At least they seem like they’re in a good mood.

He stretches, puffs his chest, and takes the short stroll down to the fro-yo place. 

There are a few high schoolers zooming by on bikes. The remains of the shells the seagulls love to drop litter the boardwalk. The air is warm, but cool, and the smell of the ocean feels like home.

It’s not a bad day for a reunion.

It just might be a bad day for theirs.

* * *

Grace walks a little slower, letting Walt lead the way like the distracted tour guide he so loves to pretend to be.

"He knows we grew up here, right?" Marisol says, amused, when Grace falls in step with her.

"Gotta admit, he's a good salesman," Grace whispers back, nudging her friend. "How are you?"

"' _How are you_ '?" Marisol repeats, brows raising. "What'd they teach you at college? Manners?"

"I'm Asian, I always knew manners," Grace scoffs. "I just didn't use them around you losers."

(Affronted could be a word to describe Marisol at this moment, but it wouldn't have quite the same _oomph_.)

"Was _sup_ , really," Grace says, rolling her eyes. "No jokes, I promise."

"Oh, because you already had a few?"

"Um, yeah, duh."

Marisol points at a streetlamp. "Hey Walt, what's the history on that one?"

"Hell if I know," Walt says, walking backwards to answer her. "Maybe Mr. Hayward built it. With help from Big Show!" He snaps his fingers. "That's gonna be a good story!"

"Walt's not a great distraction device outside of the classroom anymore," Marisol frowns, turning to Grace.

"Lucky us," Grace says, lips a thin line. She loops her arm through Marisol's. "Now seriously."

"Maybe he won't show up."

"You know how you're really bad at this 'back to friends' thing?"

"Excuse you—"

"He's worse."

Marisol freezes, and Grace is like a bungee cord, slinging back.

" _Ow_ ," Grace says, frowning at her. She nods to their arms. "We're _attached_ , ma’am."

"What do you mean he's _worse_?" Marisol asks, brows furrowed. She hears the thrumming—the rise of her pulse, the thought she'd always entertained but couldn't confirm without outside help, the _stupid words_ —

"I know you know he hasn't dated anyone," Grace says, tugging her along before Walt can notice. "But he's like, _obsessed_ with work. Think you with homework."

Marisol's heart sinks. "Oh. That's it?"

"Dude," Grace says, now the one stopping, "did you hear me? Like _you_ with _homework_."

" _Ow_ , I get the arm thing, now," Marisol says, rubbing her bicep. "Do you work out? You're like a truck."

"The boy's a good trainer," Grace says wryly.

Marisol snaps to attention. "The boy?"

_Smirk_. "The boy." _Frown_. "You're not getting out of talking to me about Mikey."

"I'm not trying to," Marisol says, grinning madly. She definitely is, but whatever. "But— _the boy_."

"The boy."

" _A_ boy."

"A boy."

"Pics?"

Grace tries to keep from smiling. "You've met."

"We've—holy crap."

"Yup."

" _No_."

"Yes."

"...Damn, I owe Walt money," Marisol says, shaking her head. "Since when?"

"Last semester." Grace lets the smile grow—a soft thing, but strong enough to make her look at something else while she talks. "You saw the news?"

"He's getting drafted, right?"

"He's getting a bunch of other deals, too," Grace says proudly, tipping her glasses. "Ya welcome."

"You wanna set up a scholarship fund for me?" Marisol laughs, bumping her. " _Wow_. I'm so happy for you, seriously."

"Any advice?"

_Scoff_ , absolutely self-depricating. "Don't screw it up."

“Debbie downer, love to see it.”

“Literally who are you.”

“It's a term!”

“Can you pick a generation to talk like because I'm having trouble figuring out if I should be referring to you as ‘kid’ or ‘grandma,’” Marisol says, dead serious.

“Madam CEO would work fine,” Grace says, raising her chin. 

Marisol leans closer, giggling like a villain. “Madam Rozier?”

“ _Dude_!” Grace hisses, dragging her back, "Walt doesn't know."

"I'm assuming no one knows."

"We were just gonna not tell anyone for a bit."

"What, 'til your anniversary?" Marisol asks, raising a brow. "You realize I've been there, right?"

"Girl, you _wish_ you coulda kept it a secret that long," Grace scoffs.

"Says the one who figured it out last."

"I—"

"Uh-huh."

"— _fair_." Grace clears her throat. They keep walking, the silence filled by Walt telling them a dozen stories about hallmates and Banana Slug glory. 

It's nice.

It's a nice, relaxing, short walk.

Until Ivory spots Ebony.

* * *

5:28.

(Grace remembers the call mostly because she remembers not talking to anyone but Rakeem, her parents, and people in her immediate vicinity for the last two semesters of school.

A call from Lorenzo was rare, and one from Walt was like winning the lottery. So yeah, you could say it was bad.

You could say she spent the hour before her night class trying to figure out why they were both so mad, why Walt was being so stubborn, why Lorenzo wasn't getting why he had to be the one to apologize.

You could, and you should, and you also could and should remember that the only thought she had had the entire time was: _Is this really happening to us?_

_Is this how it ends?_ )

Walt's smug, jovial demeanor completely drops the second a customer steps out of the fro-yo place and he gets a view of the inside.

Marisol lets go of Grace and walks forward, nudging Walt gently from behind. "Let's go, Walt."

There's steel in his eyes, and it's a little scary, you know, to see someone like him mad. "I should go."

"Hell no."

"Marisol," he says, voice lower than usual, "I think I should go."

"You're sober?"

"I'm sober."

She shoves him. "You're apologizing."

"I— _hey_!" Walt seethes, stumbling through the door.

Lorenzo sees him.

He sees Lorenzo.

Grace watches.

Lorenzo's tentative. There's melting fro-yo in a cup in front of him, and it's pretty obvious that he's lost his appetite.

Walt stares at him.

Stares, not glares, which is a start.

Lorenzo raises his hand. "Hey, guys," he says, a half-smile on his lips. "Long time."

Marisol elbows Walt.

_Cough_. "Long time," Walt nods stiffly.

"Um..." Lorenzo points at the counter. "You guys buyin’?"

It feels like a western.

(Grace waits for the tumbleweed to show up, but she's never that lucky.)

"...Yeah," Marisol says, beelining it to Lorenzo first to give him a hug. She pats his back and whispers, " _Be nice_ ," before heading for the counter.

Lorenzo looks at Grace.

Grace looks at Lorenzo.

Walt looks at Grace.

Grace points at the counter. " _Um_. Hugs later." She speedwalks right past, not even considering getting between them right now. Not while the only potential outside witness is a high school kid ten feet away with the kitchen exit as a getaway route.

Walt stares at Lorenzo.

Lorenzo stares at the floor.

It's 5:36.

Their world is dissolving.

* * *

Marisol and Grace watch the staredown continue from the other end of the yogurt shop, food getting eaten mostly to continue to keep quiet. The music playing is party music—disco and techno—and literally everything about this situation is reminiscent of the hellish sound that is a cheap metal fork getting dragged down a plate.

Grace isn’t sure if it’s the best excuse, but she figures Marisol won’t care as long as it works. She takes out her phone and waves it haltingly. “Uh, gotta call my parents,” she says, heading straight for the front door.

Marisol follows close behind, and the boys, predictably, stay right there, immune to distractions.

“Please tell me you have a plan,” Grace says to Marisol when they’re outside, the sun and breeze suddenly useless at calming the turmoil in their insides.

“I have a plan,” Marisol says immediately, nodding like she doesn’t have one.

“ _Please_.”

“I’ll _have_ a plan.”

“Good enough for me.”

Marisol shoves another spoonful of fro-yo into her mouth, nodding nervously.

Grace thinks, _Oh, that’s still stuck._

Because that’s Mikey’s thing.

The nodding.

The looking around for an out.

Grace shakes her head before she makes a comment that earns her another death glare, redirecting herself to her fro—

SMH _._

“ _Gnnughhh_ ,” Grace whines, teeth bared as she looks down at her empty hands. “...I left my food.”

“I love you, but I’m not going back in there,” Marisol says, spoon ready to take another deep dive. “They usually work stuff out if you trap ‘em long enough, anyway.”

“ _Is that your plan_.”

“Yeah, actually.”

“...Hold my phone, I need an excuse to go back out here,” Grace says, taking a deep breath as she surveys what she can from the decorated windows.

Great.

Still staring.

“If Rakeem calls, I’m grilling him,” Marisol says.

“Expected.”

“If he texts, I’m snooping.”

“Also expected,” Grace says, stepping forward. “That’s why my texts don’t show on the lockscreen.”

“Aw, you’re lame,” Marisol says, frowning. She watches her friend take the brave step back into the dessert desert, mildly annoyed at being left alone with no chance of messing with her.

_Buzz._

...Or not.

_Buzz. Buzz. Buzz._

Marisol grins, reading the caller ID: _king big time_

She hits the little green phone, ready to launch into a spiel about secret dating and the detriments thereof—

_“Hey, Grace? Which fro-yo place is it? The one beside DeBlasio’s or the—oh man, there are four now? Uhhh_ ,” the caller says.

Marisol’s entire nervous system stops working for a second, along with—well, with everything else. She can’t really _breathe_ , can’t really _think_ , and, in true freakout fashion, can’t really _talk_.

It’s not that she hasn’t heard his voice in all the years since.

It’s that it’s so clear in her mind and in her memories and in her dreams. It’s so clear that now her brain’s trying to figure out if this is real or fake, and the fact that Grace or Walt or Lorenzo aren’t close enough to pinch her is just making her...fizz out.

Either way, though, it’s a beautiful sound. Her favorite. Her absolute favorite.

(Doesn’t mean she’s not going to have a talk with Grace about misleading phone nicknames.)

“ _Sheesh, I can’t believe I’m lost. I was here over Christmas, like what the hell_ ,” Mikey says, and Marisol knows he’s got a hand in his hair, going all the way back to his nape. “ _They changed everything! It’s been_ four _months!_ ” _Whine_. “ _Grace,_ please _? I don’t know where—_ ”

“It’s the one by DeBlasio’s,” Marisol says, surprised the words made it out of her mouth.

There is a very.

Very.

Very.

_Heavy_.

Pause.

“ _…Marisol?_ ” Mikey asks in a whisper.

It’s…

It doesn’t sound accusatory.

It doesn’t sound distant, either.

It sounds like the boy who sat beside her for ten years.

The boy who smiled at her like he knew what love was.

The boy who would say her name like _that_ —like a secret question while they’re in their own homes, about to fall asleep.

The boy who always followed it up with—

* * *

_“Are you still there?”_

_“Barely.”_

_“Te amo, Marisol.”_

Laugh _. “Love you too, Mikey.”_

* * *

“...Are you still there?” Mikey gulps.

“ _Barely._ ”

The pattern hits him like a truck.

A truck carrying like, boulders, or something.

Something heavy.

Something that could flatten him into a pancake, and then some.

And he knows it’s his fault this is even happening. It’s almost 6 PM and he knows, he knows, he knows.

He knows that golden sky over the pier should be the best sight in a long while because it’s their agreed upon reunion day, but that _voice_.

_Her_ voice.

Her voice is reminding him why everything sucks.

Why he can’t do anything but try harder, be better. 

Work. And work. And _work_.

Why he can play the romantic lead so astonishingly well.

Because it’s his fault.

And he knows how it feels.

“Thanks,” Mikey says, but he doesn’t hang up.

He’s pretty sure he forgot how to.

* * *

Marisol can see him. He bumps into a couple, apologizes, and she can see him. He’s still got the phone up to his ear, and he hasn’t hung up.

He looks mostly the same—hair standing tall and eyes droopy. Heavier bags under his eyes, but he’s got about as many late nights as she does. He’s wearing an old overshirt—she’d borrowed it a few times in high school—and a new one underneath. A cast shirt, she knows, because she’d seen his posts about the show hitting Off-Broadway status and Mr. (and Mrs.) Iglesias raving about it online.

Mikey’s looking at her like he’s surprised she‘s real.

Surprised she showed up.

“Hi,” Marisol says.

“Hi,” Mikey says.

Their phones are still up.

“Oh, hello,” Grace says, suddenly beside Marisol. She looks between her friends, eyes wide in panic. “Hi. Hey.” She waves her hand in front of Marisol. “Are you two functioning?”

Mikey, bless his soul, shakes his head. He’s not breaking eye contact, and this time there’s no next line to say to make him look away.

“I—” Marisol blinks, screwed over by feelings, “—uh, _we_ —” She shuts her eyes tight, trying to remember why she’s out here in the first place. 

Grace.

Frozen yogurt.

Lorenzo.

Walt.

_Right_.

“Are they cool?” she asks Grace, handing her her phone back and finally turning away from Mikey.

“They’re kinda sobbing all over the table, but I think we can help mop it up and send the kid to Ms. O for therapy,” Grace says, shrugging.

“Mrs. I.”

“Habit.”

“What happened?” Mikey asks with a frown, much closer than two seconds ago.

“They uh,” Marisol starts, making the mistake of looking at him, “they.” _Ahem_. _Blink_ , _blink_. “Had a fight.”

“Oh, they didn’t talk this whole time?” Mikey says, brows knitted as he asks Grace. 

(Great. At least he’s in the circuit.)

“That’s what we said,” Grace says, rolling her eyes. “It’s not like they’re yo—” _Freeze_ , and a quick look at her friends, “—er, whatever, we can get dessert now, is what matters.”

“And that their friendship is restored?” Marisol squints, opting to ignore Grace’s canceled dig against her and her ex.

“Marisol,” Grace says, raising a brow. “You know it was always gonna be fine.” _Shrug_. “They’re just kinda morons.” She turns on her heels, phone in hand, and heads back in.

Marisol remembers there’s this one gigantic caveat to the dramatic exit:

Mikey’s still here, and he’s only like, inches from her.

And _listen_ , because this is important: at the wedding? At every event they’d seen each other? It was _never_ like this.

It was never _just_ them.

It was them, _and_.

Them, _plus_.

Them, _far away from_.

Separation was the best way for her, because their last moments _together_ -together were just like that: him at the other end of a patio, saying words she never thought would exist between them.

But if anything, she’s glad he did it that way. Because it kept all their other moments safe. Kept her memories of them stuck together at dances and dinners in a neat, distinctive box—where they’re close in every way, the way they should be.

Sucks for right now, though.

Sucks to be reminded what that feels like.

Sucks to know why it can’t be that way anymore.

* * *

Lorenzo’s fro-yo cup is refilled, but it’s all teardrops. He’s got both arms clamped down around Walt’s shoulders, both of them sounding much like a soap opera.

“I just—man, I _didn’t realize_ —” Lorenzo says, sniffling every couple of seconds. He clings tighter. “I’m sorry, dude.”

“It’s okay, bro,” Walt says, wailing slightly. “You’re my brotha, man. I‘m sorry.”

_Sniffle_. “You’re my _bro_ , bro.”

The kid at the counter looks frazzled. He’s got a mop in his hand, but there’s no way he’s stepping past the counter willingly.

(He’s also thinking about quitting after this shift.)

Grace steps in, bathed in sunlight like a superhero. “Please stop crying in front of the youngin.”

“Bro!” Walt cries, extending an arm to her.

Lorenzo does the same. “Get in here, dude!”

“When did I stop being the weird one,” Grace mutters, begrudgingly joining the group hug. She pats them both on the back, the overdone display being on-brand and still making her reconsider existing. “Happy for you two.”

“Where’s Maris _ooool_?” Lorenzo says, crying again.

_Living the longest day of her life_ , Grace thinks, saying, “Outside.”

A beat.

Walt frowns, peeking over Lorenzo’s shoulder. Lorenzo turns, following his gaze to the glass wall. Grace doesn’t budge, but her eyes once again go wide.

There is an impressive amount of telepathic information that passes among the three of them in the millisecond that follows, which leads to a jarring symphony of:

Walt says, “Is that Mikey?”

Grace says, “ _Oh crap_.”

Lorenzo says, “You left her outside with _Mikey_?!”

* * *

“Hi.”

(Marisol’s not really sure how it happened, but she’s completely uncool at this now.)

She swallows, throat scratchy. “Hi.”

(How many times they’ll say hi to each other in this deathly level of awkward before they both drive to and jump off of the closest cliffside is beyond her, but she’s hoping they can skip that step altogether.)

Mikey grins, and her heart warms. “It’s...good to see you.”

(Dimples. Crap. She forgot about the dimples.)

(...Well, more of a, like, self-preservation thing than actual forgetting, but still—)

“You too,” Marisol says, fully stupid.

(She’s going to fail law school.)

“Um,” Mikey gulps, a hand gesturing to her cup, “you got the brownies and almonds, right?”

(Her brain is no longer working and she is going to fail law school.)

There’s an involuntary twitch up to her lips. “You remember?”

“‘Course.”

“You still get the sweetest flavor available?” 

“Yeah,” he nods, sheepish. The dimples return. “You remember.”

“‘Course,” she throws back, and it really, really should not be this easy to flirt with your _Broke My Heart The Day I Thought He’d Propose-ex._

Not.

That.

She’s flirting.

(Maybe a little.)

(Maybe subconsciously.)

* * *

Mikey’s unraveling.

It’s how she says it, and how he’s not sure if she’s aware—if she knows she’s kind of, y’know, flirting.

Two and a half years and he’s still losing his mind.

Two and a half years and it’s like a bajillion times worse.

His palms are sweating. “How was graduation?”

_How was graduation—what am I talking about? She graduated summa, what kind of dumbass question—_

“Kinda boring,” Marisol says, wrinkling her nose. “Top honors, though.”

“I heard.” _No, I read it on Instagram and Mr. Iglesias sent me pictures._

_I wish I was there._

_I need to tell you that I wish I coulda been there._

“Mr. Iglesias was there,” she says, distracted by something on his face. Or maybe his general direction. Something past him?

Mikey nods. “I know.”

“DO NOT ENGAGE!” Lorenzo yells, all but jumping out of the fro-yo place. “NO FIGHTING!”

Marisol frowns at him. “We’re not fighting.”

“Uh-huh, uh-huh,” Lorenzo says, walking up. He motions between her and Mikey. “Explain why you’re so close together, then.”

Mikey scoffs. “We’re not—” he starts, looking to Marisol, “— _oh_.”

“Uhh,” Marisol says, eyes widening. She’s like, the opposite of _Very Far_. The opposite of _Not Dating_. The opposite of _Keeping Him Clear-headed_.

Lorenzo gawks. “Oh, you _cannot_ be—”

“Are they dead? Do we call the cops?” Walt says, peeking from the doorway.

Grace steps out from behind him, flicking his ear. 

“Ow!”

“How did you pass college?”

“Teachers love me.”

“I don’t believe you,” Grace says before turning to Lorenzo. “What happened?”

“ _Nothing_ ,” Mikey says, exasperated.

“We were just _talking_ ,” Marisol says at the same time, with the exact same energy.

“ _Eugh_ , missed that,” Walt mumbles. 

Marisol glares at him.

“Missed _that_ , too,” he says louder.

“Um,” Mikey says, looking around the crew. “Are we just skipping dessert?”

“We’re skipping something,” Marisol mutters, walking back to the yogurt place. She drags Walt in with her.

“Great,” Grace says, throwing her hands up. “Another mess.”

“Ma’am, that is not even the half of it,” Lorenzo says, exhaling. He walks back, head ducked as he whispers something to her.

Grace looks at him.

Looks at Mikey. 

Looks inside.

“What?” Mikey asks, frowning.

“...Nothing,” Grace says, not turning back. 

There’s a change in her tone, like when one of his castmates is about to drop a bomb on stage.

She shakes her head. “Better order, Mikey. I hear the strawberry’s good.”

* * *

Walt’s phone rings, loud and annoying, at 7:52. They’d all decided to roam the pier after distressing the cashier at the yogurt shop for another half hour—and leaving a gigantic tip to apologize—and Walt, ahead of the pack, holds his phone up to the setting sun as he hits Stop.

Grace nods at it. “Weird alarm time.”

“It’s when he used to go out for parties,” Lorenzo says, strolling beside her.

“Oh.” She hums. “Dope.”

“Language,” Marisol jokes. She’s walking by Lorenzo, pointedly careful in not getting too close to Mikey yet again.

Walt snickers. “She said ‘dope.’”

“You’re literally the same,” Marisol laughs, patting his back. “Weirdo.”

“Thanks!” 

Mikey speeds up from his spot by Grace, patting Walt’s arm with the back of his hand. “Grats on three years, bro,” he says, grinning. “You got a show soon?”

“Ooh! Yeah,” Walt says, snapping his fingers. He walks backwards. “There’s an open mic at Roxanne’s next week. The I’s invited me.”

“I thought they only did karaoke nights there?” Lorenzo says.

“Yeah, well, you can come to see me perform and it’ll be viral video-worthy either way,” Walt shrugs, about-facing. “Not like you guys have anything to do.”

“Hey, I have work,” Marisol and Mikey say at the same time. 

They glance at each other.

Walt keeps walking.

Grace stares ahead.

Lorenzo clears his throat. He moves forward, blocking Mikey from Marisol’s view. “You got a show next week?”

“Rehearsal,” Mikey says, a little frazzled. He leans forward to look at Walt. “I end at six, usually.”

“So our big star can make it, eh?” Walt jokes, tipping an imaginary hat. “You’ll love it.” 

He checks his phone again, briefly.

7:59.

8:00.

He breathes.

The sun is fading, and he breathes.

Marisol’s voice is distant in his ears, but not fuzzy, not warbled. She asks, “What’s it on?”

Walt looks up, stretches his hands out to his sides, closes his eyes, and breathes.

He hears the waves. The birds. The steps they take on the newly-laid boards.

Feels the wind fluttering his hair, sharp on his arms and legs. Smells the salt mixed in with the wafting aromas of the restaurants they pass by. 

He opens his eyes.

A breath.

“Second chances.”

* * *

Lorenzo lies down on the beach towel, tossing his flip flops to one of the corners. Beside him, Grace texts away on her phone, a chortle escaping every now and then.

(He’s, like, 97% sure she’s dating someone.)

(He’s still trying to figure out _who_.)

Walt heckles Mikey into performing a monologue for them when all the nearby beach goers get up and leave, and when he does it, it’s nice.

It feels nice.

Marisol’s looking up at him like she’s sixteen again, except she’s lying on her belly and she’s not up there running lines with him. Lorenzo still thinks it’s weird that they broke up, because it’s not like him and Rita parting ways after graduation—it’s something different with those two, and when Mikey catches her gaze and stumbles on a line, Lorenzo thinks it’s just nice, y’see, to figure all hope isn’t lost.

Walt’s whistling and clapping at every well-articulated word, proud as hell that his friend is making it right along with the rest of them. 

His eyes are so clear.

So clear. 

And Lorenzo gets it now—gets why the guy was so ticked that he’d gotten blackout drunk at a party near the end of the year. Gets why he hates driving past a certain hour because that’s when the bar crew is heading home, and not everyone takes a taxi.

Because it sucks. 

It sucks when you know it’s happened to you and you know you can’t control it happening to anyone else.

So it’s nice to see him like this. It’s nice to see him like his old self but better.

Grace has one muff of her headphones on, plugged into her phone. From where she is, Lorenzo can’t see the screen, but he can tell from the reflection on her glasses that she’s on a call—probably to show off Mikey’s skills—with someone named _king_ -something. 

Which isn’t helpful, really, because a year ago all her nicknames for their old class got switched to _king_ -this and _queen_ -that, save for Mr. I and Mrs. I. 

But whatever.

She’s happy, he can tell. She’s happy, she’s going to own all their behinds in the private sector, and he’s proud of her. He’s so, so proud of her.

And it’s nice.

It’s nice to be home.

* * *

Grace is the first one to bring it up, but Marisol’s the first one to absolutely shut it down.

“We’ll drown,” Marisol says, in the voice they all know means that one shouldn’t bother arguing.

“Maybe _you_ will, you big wuss,” Grace says, standing and pulling off her sweater. She tosses it down over her backpack, patting it down so it doesn’t topple.

“You will get hypothermia, and I will stand over your ICU bed saying I told you so,” Marisol says, pointing at her tank top. “That’s not gonna be enough.”

"It's enough."

"It isn't." Marisol makes a face at Lorenzo. "Please. Please tell her that she's going to get sick."

"Uh, damn right she's gonna get sick," Lorenzo says, a half-grin on his face as he meets Grace for a high five. "Sick _waves_!"

Marisol throws her hands up, rolling over to her back. "Fine! Die, for all I care!"

"We're not dying, that woulda made the last four years a total waste of time," Walt says, pointing sternly at the Disaster Duo as he stands.

"Not you too!" Marisol argues, jaw dropped. " _Walter_."

"It's called fun, Ms. Lawyer Ma'am," Walt says with a little change in tone, shaking his head at her as a taunt. He extends a hand to Mikey, currently cross-legged at the back end of the beach towel. "Let's go, dude!"

There's a second of hesitation—Mikey's eyes dart to Marisol, to the empty beach, to the quiet pier. 

There's a second of a bullet train thought process running through his mind—a certain script he's only ever heard in his head, only ever hoped to be able to say one day without messing it up.

"Uhh," he says, wincing, "I actually have to make sure I don't get sick, so..."

"You're not gonna get sick, bro," Walt says, shoulders slumping and an annoyed frown on his face. 

"He is, actually," Marisol says, still arguing upside down. "It's like sixties and none of you brought towels."

"You're on a towel right now, and Grace has her sweater." Pause. "And sixties isn't gonna get us hypothermia."

"But it _is_ gonna get you sick," Marisol says, a single, judging brow raised. "And Lorenzo's like, susceptible."

Walt throws his head back, groaning. " _Ugghhh_."

"Four years ago!" Lorenzo yells, already halfway to the water. " _Four_ years ago, Marisol!"

"How many times did you get the flu, huh? How many?!" Marisol throws back, not bothering to look.

The waves crash.

Walt's got a permanent frown on his face. Grace cackles, dragging Lorenzo to the water. Mikey ducks his head, trying not to laugh.

Marisol closes her eyes, lying content for a moment. Her tone’s beyond smug. "I can't hear you, Mr. Webber!"

"...Five!" Lorenzo says, begrudgingly. He makes a gesture that she can't see, but knows he's making. "I'm still going!"

"Fine, but it's your funeral," Marisol says, waving Walt off. "Please make sure they don't die."

"Wow, I would be the last person you'd be putting in charge if we were still in high school," Walt says, grinning immediately at how ridiculous this is.

Growing up.

Growing better.

Mikey watches the edges of her lips curl up as Walt goes to chase down their friends. 

It's so fond, the way she says it: "Don't make me regret it."

* * *

There's something special about tonight.

It's almost 9 and there's something special.

The sky's clear—more stars out than usual, not dimmed by the lights in town and on the pier. The boardwalk's buzzing behind them, filled with voices of parties and partiers, and the clinking of dinnerware and glasses. Ahead, Grace throws water at the boys, running on the shallow end whenever they take a shot at retaliation. They’ve moved further down the beach, feeling invincible. Lorenzo sneezes at some point, but Marisol doesn't see it because she's too busy watching the stars and passing planes.

She feels Mikey shift the towel when he gets up. 

Her hand finds her necklace and flips in around with no discernible rhythm.

There's something special about tonight.

It's not because of the whirlwind in her gut, or the brain fog—both courtesy of her towel-mate. It's not because there's a curtain of normalcy all around them.

It's because she knows this is when she's getting her answer.

Mikey sits back down, a little closer. He's leaning back on his hands, looking up at the stars right there with her. 

Marisol sits up.

He looks at her.

She looks at him.

There's something special about tonight.

It's not exactly the good kind.

Something in Mikey's eyes breaks. "Mar—"

"Why did you lie to me?" Marisol cuts in. 

(She’s been waiting for this day. 

Practicing. _Perfecting_.

Waiting for the chance to gain the last piece of information she could never figure out.)

Mikey stays silent. His jaw clenches.

“When you broke up with me,” Marisol says, voice managing to stay clear and steady, “why did you lie?”

He ducks his head for a moment, running his hand from his nape up to his head and over his face. 

When he finds her eyes again, there’s something she doesn’t expect.

Steel.

“I need you to know that I didn’t want to,” he says, nostrils flaring slightly. His eyes shine. “I need you to know that.”

“But you lied,” Marisol says, breaking slowly. She hugs her knees. “Okay.” She looks up at the stars. “ _I_ —okay.” She starts to get up, feeling her eyes welling. “I should go.”

Mikey swallows, his hand wiping over his face again. 

“Just tell them I had to get up early, or don’t, I’ll—I can—”

_Mumble._

Marisol freezes, nowhere near far enough away. It’s the curiosity that’s going to kill her. 

So she asks.

“What?”

Mikey heaves a sigh, scratching at his nosebridge for some semblance of control. “I knew I wouldn’t change.”

She frowns. 

This isn’t her answer. 

The deflecting, sure. The confirmation of what it was? Fine.

Not this.

This wasn’t one of the possibilities—

Mikey shakes with the words, his balled up fist covering his mouth between breaths: “I knew that I couldn’t— _I can’t change_ , Marisol.” He looks up at her, and for all the fear in his voice, his eyes are still determined. “I knew I wouldn’t stop loving you.”

_This isn’t—_ “What did that have to do with anything—”

He stands, stepping closer.

Close again, like before. 

Close like when they were just a couple of teens barely living life.

“ _You know_ ,” he says, voice low. “You were distracted and stressed and you had too much on your plate. You know what I’m talking about.”

Marisol puts a hand on his chest, pushing him back slightly. Her head’s spinning.

This was not a possibility.

He couldn’t—

“That was my problem.”

Mikey shakes his head. “That was _our_ problem.”

“So your solution was to take me out to our favorite place and tell me you didn’t love me anymore,” Marisol says with restrained venom. She stretches her jaw, huffing. “Sure, Mikey. Great plan.” She moves past him. “We’re done here.”

“You would’ve done it,” Mikey says, not following her.

“ _Screw you_ ,” she says, walking away.

“You would’ve done it, and you know I’m right ‘cause you _never_ fought me on it!” he says, and Marisol freezes.

(This is _not_ —

He _shouldn’t_ have—)

In two strides, Mikey’s beside her. “Why’s it all my fault if you didn’t even try? That’s not fair, Marisol.” 

She’s fuming, but she’s not sure at whom—she remembers sophomore year pretty clearly: the adjusted schedule, the overlapping jobs, the second year of long distance.

She was missing home, feeling sick, and running on empty. She didn’t know how to fix it. 

How to fix anything.

“ _You_ broke up with _me_ ,” she says weakly, avoiding his gaze. 

“If I waited,” Mikey starts, ducking his head to look her in the eye, “you would’ve found every reason to break up with me. And by then you would’ve hated my guts so much that we wouldn’t even be here today.” 

Marisol closes her eyes.

There’s a string of curses that she could use right now—a string of curses to try to drown out the nagging thought she thought she’d taken care of years ago. The makings of a terrible idea. A huge mistake.

She can feel Mikey still watching her and it hits, finally, now that she can’t run anymore.

That it’s true.

That’s the worst part.

It’s true.

She was drowning, and he was the logical solution. 

He was the one who had to go.

Marisol opens her eyes slowly, eyes tracking sand, scared of the answer. “...Do you regret it?”

Mikey’s ready. He’s a step closer. “You graduated with top honors. You’re going to law school.” He shakes his head, dead serious. “You’re living your dream. I don’t regret it.”

“Mikey,” she says, out of breath, “I’m living it without you.”

“As long as you’re happy,” he says solemnly, stepping out of her path, “I’d do it again.”

* * *

She goes.

* * *

It's 9 PM and Marisol's in her car.

It's 9 PM and she hates that she can't drive.

* * *

"Hey, Mikey, throw me my swea—" Grace frowns, scanning the beach. 

"She left," Mikey says, head bowed behind crossed arms and raised knees.

Grace snorts. "What do you mean—"

Mikey raises his head.

"...What happened," she says, on high alert. She sits down beside him, leaning on his shoulder. She’s gentle. "...What happened, Mikey?"

Walt walks up, hair sticking to his forehead like a misplaced combover. He's laughing, motioning to Lorenzo lagging behind him. "See? Told you we wouldn't—" 

He doesn't see Marisol. 

But he sees Mikey.

"What's going on?" Lorenzo asks, jogging up, shorts drenched, but otherwise dry.

Mikey stares at the waves, highlighted by the moon and pier lights. His brows dig deep, making ridges. Trenches. "Do you guys remember when we broke up?"

The waves keep crashing. 

Bigger.

Stronger.

Lorenzo sits down, directly in front of Mikey. He picks at the towel, heaving a breath. "Mikey..."

"No, really, Lorenzo," Mikey says, swallowing thickly. He looks at him, at Grace, at Walt. "Do you guys remember?" 

"How everything got messed up?" Walt asks, only half-joking. He wrings out the edge of his shirt. "Yeah, I remember." He nods at Grace. "We were on a video call."

Grace huddles closer to Mikey, silent still. 

Lorenzo shakes his head, exhausted. "Yeah, sure. I remember. We had plans."

Mikey sounds different. "You thought she broke up with me, right?"

He feels Grace frowning, moving off his shoulder. 

She stares at him, the beginnings of a mental equation reaching— "You didn't." She looks at Walt, at Lorenzo. Her mouth's agape, just slightly. Just enough.

Just enough for you to know she finally understands why Marisol never wanted to talk about it.

"Mikey. _Please_. Please tell me you _didn't_.”

"I did," he says, voice scratchy. He looks at each of his friends. His heart feels like lead. "I did."

Walt curses under his breath.

Lorenzo closes his eyes, rubs his forehead. 

The waves keep coming. 

"I'm going," Mikey says quietly, standing. "I just wanted you guys to know." He's unsteady. "I just. I don't think she wanted to tell you. But I wanted you guys to know."

"You're not driving, man," Walt says sternly. He grabs Mikey by the shoulders, helping him walk. "C'mon."

"I took an Uber."

"You're not taking one home."

"Walt—"

"What'd you say?" Lorenzo asks, barely careful. “When you did it, what’d you say?”

_What’d you say that made her dive so far back into school and work that we didn’t really see her again until today?_

They turn and Lorenzo's standing, a flash of disappointment passing over his frame as he stares down his friend.

Mikey looks so tired.

He looks so beat up. Looks like he got thrashed around by a professional football team before a championship match.

But you wouldn't be able to tell if all you could see were his eyes.

"A lie," Mikey says, not as a throwaway. Not sarcastic, not stern, not lilted.

Just a fact.

A simple fact.

He frowns for a second, and breathes.

A big wave comes in, sends a spray all the way down to their spot.

He could laugh.

"I told her the biggest freakin' lie."

* * *

_Buzz. Buzz._

"Grace," Marisol says, coarse and sighing heavily, still stuck in the parking lot, "not now."

" _I'm driving._ "

"What are you—"

" _I'm ten seconds from your car and I'm driving you home. Lorenzo's coming with_."

"...What'd he tell you?"

_Scuffle_ , and a _knock_ on the passenger side door. "Not a lot," Grace says when the window rolls down.

Marisol hangs up, moving seats.

Lorenzo takes the backseat silently.

Patiently.

Grace adjusts the mirrors.

The car starts moving.

Marisol watches the pier disappear from view.

It's 9:27.

She doesn't remember her cheeks being wet. "I need to see Ontiveros."

"Iglesias," Grace quips.

There's a strained laugh—but it counts. 

Lorenzo thinks it counts.

Marisol shakes her head, a weak smile on her face. Her nose is stuffy. "Habit."

* * *

###  _part ii._

It's a crappy day to wake up to.

Cloudy with no chance of rain.

Something like smog on the horizon. Maybe smoke, considering it’s California.

Overcast and all Gabe wants to do is mope about teaching SAT prep again this summer instead of _actually_ being productive, because the weather doesn't agree.

Jackie hands him a mug of coffee before he even makes it to their little breakfast nook, and _ah, yes_ —that's right.

A sniff and a swig, and he remembers: his name is Gabe Iglesias, he's married, and he loves his job.

Jackie could laugh, watching his mental process play out crystal clear over his facial expressions. "You good there?"

"I—and I mean this in the best way possible— _love_ your coffee," Gabe says, ascending with every sip.

"It’s cheaper to hire me as a personal barista than it was to marry me, you know."

"Man, I missed out."

"Sure did," Jackie grins, ready to raid the fridge. "... _Hey_. Where's the slice of pie Abby gave me?"

Gabe chugs his mug. "What's mine is yours, right? And vice versa?"

Jackie frowns, turning to face him. "You don't even like chicken pot pie."

_Shrug_. "Neither do you."

"I do when Abby makes it."

"So do I."

"Next time, just take it when she offers," Jackie says, lips a thin line. 

_Ding!_

She raises a brow. "Did you put anything in the toaster oven?"

Gabe scrunches up his face. "Didn't Tony steal our toaster oven?"

"Oh," Jackie says, catching sight of her phone. "Weird, I thought it was on silent." She does a double-take. "...Huh."

Gabe cranes his neck. "Marisol's back?" He looks up at Jackie. "Does Mikey know?"

Jackie frowns, rereading the text. "She wants to meet up."

"Oh, I'm free on Tues—"

"Just me."

" _Oh_." Gabe slumps. "Okay."

Jackie snorts. "Are you _moping_?"

"I'm not moping."

"You're moping, sweetie."

"I just thought, that, see," Gabe stammers, "we had a good relationship. Y'know. Like a good teacher-student rapport—"

"You're moping," Jackie says, kissing his forehead. She pats his face. "I'm sure she would love to see you."

Gabe perks up.

"But not for this."

And deflates.

"I'll invite her to Walt's thing next week," Jackie laughs, returning to her scavenger hunt for breakfast. "Now, let's see—what will hurt you as much as the theft of Abby’s magnificent savory pie hurt me..."

* * *

Mikey’s not sure why he’s here.

The theater’s empty. Fliers from the spring performance of Twelfth Night still line the hallway, and the set they’d used peeks from behind the curtains. 

Feels weird.

He would make it to the shows when he was still in Long Beach State, but transferring to Tisch for sophomore year made it impossible to keep up on anything other than on social media. Still, Hernandez made it a point to meet for lunch and check up on him whenever he was in town for the holidays, and on more than one occasion tried to livestream the performances for his benefit.

But that’s not why it feels weird.

He walks up to stage left. He still remembers the lines—he’d done a few runs as Romeo with his local company, and even without them, he couldn’t forget.

It was his first play.

It was their first kiss.

There’s something daunting looming over him now that he’s standing here again. Maybe he’d caught a taste of it at the beach the night before, performing alone.

_To_ her instead of _with_ her.

And not even _with_ , as in her _acting_ on stage—just _with_ , as in knowing the _energy_ she’d be giving in encouragement would be fueling him on stage.

With, as in _together_.

With, as in _a team_.

Someone knocks on the double doors.

Mikey cracks a grin.

“How’d you get through security?” Gabe asks, grinning right back.

“Mr. Iglesias!” Mikey cheers, hopping down the stage to give him a hug. “Ah, I said I had to see Hernandez. They still know me from before.”

“So you wanted to see Carlos?”

“I think I just wanted to walk.”

Gabe pats his shoulder. “I take it you know Marisol’s back?”

Mikey blinks. “You talked to her?”

_Ahem_. “She’s going to have lunch out with Jackie around…” He checks his watch. “...Now, ish.” He nods at Mikey. “What’s up? Other than your neverending telenovela.”

“We all met up,” Mikey says, inhaling sharply. “It was fun.”

Gabe squints.

“I told her I was still in love with her.”

Consider Gabe’s jaw: _On The Floor_. “ _Mikey_.”

“It was kinda,” Mikey winces, “kinda indirect? I don’t think she caught it.”

“Is this why she’s going to see her free therapist— _my wife_ —instead of me?” 

Mikey scratches at the back of his neck. “Um. Well. That wasn’t the only thing I said.”

“...Do I want to sit for this?”

“Aren’t you teaching a class?”

Gabe waves a hand. “They’re done for the day. With my luck, I’ll have to call Big Show in again.”

Mikey shakes.

“It’s a hard maybe,” Gabe laughs, nudging him. “C’mon. We can lock everyone out of the teacher’s lounge. It’ll be fun!”

* * *

It’s messing with her head.

The weather. Thick clouds blocking the sun from view.

It was so nice yesterday.

Pristine.

Today feels like shattered glass.

Marisol’s car ride to Woodrow Wilson High lacks music and fanfare. None of that long drive party-mode kicking in.

Just coffee, because yeah, she didn’t sleep last night.

(Grace stayed over, and once they hunkered down in her childhood room, she spilled the whole truth: the distance she was putting between herself and Mikey, the selfish encouragement with him applying to NYU, the stress.

The massive, massive amount of stress.

It’s different when you’re a hardworking kid in high school and a hardworking kid in an Ivy league university full of geniuses and other hardworking kids. 

There’s no breathing. 

There’s just _effort_.

Worse when you’re also hustling on the side with a taco truck business and a couple other minimum wage gigs so you can send money home to your family and afford overpriced textbooks.

Marisol told her about the talk she’d considered having.

She told her the mental roadmap, the pros and cons list, the stubborn determination to succeed.

Then she told her about that night.

About why she changed her mind.)

She takes a large gulp at a red light, determined to make it to the school alive and awake.

Maybe she’s regretting not letting Grace come with her, but it’s too late for that now.

The parking lot comes into view.

There’s a smile on her face as she spots Mr. Ochoa’s truck parked right beside a very familiar VW bus.

She parks, shuts off the engine, and takes a moment to take in the view of the school, so much the same since her last visit a few years ago.

At least _some_ things never change.

* * *

“Are you sure this is okay?” Mikey asks, watching his favorite teacher ever bar the door and claim the pot of coffee for himself.

“Yeah,” Gabe says, grabbing a couple of mugs and placing them on the table. “Paula’s got a meeting with the admin—well, Carlos—and Abby’s block doesn’t break for lunch til later. Everyone else should be busy for the next half hour, minimum.” He motions to the table, bowing slightly. “Mr. Iglesias, ghetto therapist, at your service.”

Mikey laughs, taking a seat. “I thought that was Ms. O’s job?”

“You know, if she were here, she’d want me to remind you that she’s Mrs. I,” Gabe says, smiling fondly. “You know, for like two years now.”

“Habit,” Mikey says sheepishly. “We all thought she was gonna keep her name.”

“Hey, _I_ wanted to hyphenate,” Gabe says, hands up playfully. “She’s got history with her name. She insisted.” Gabe smiles. “Not gonna lie, makes me feel extra awesome. It still hasn’t gotten old.”

Mikey smiles, looking down at his mug. A cartoon kitten snoozes by the handle, an empty box of donuts right by it. There’s a pang in his chest.

Gabe raises a brow, hands steepled. “How are you, Mikey?”

He clears his throat. “Freaking out, Mr. Iglesias.”

* * *

Marisol stops by the food truck first.

_Tap, tap._

“Closed for prep,” comes that familiar, jolly voice, muffled by metal walls. “If you’re cutting class, don’t do that. If you’re Tony, go home, bro.”

“It’s me,” Marisol says, walking up to the closed window.

A beat.

A slide of a metal pane. 

“Marisol!” Bob says, a huge smile on his face. “Hey, you’re back!”

“I’m back,” Marisol says, arms open. She nods at him. “How’re sales?”

“You get a check every week, you tell me,” Bob laughs, ducking into the truck once again. “You want anything? Adobo’s almost done. I can fry up an egg—”

“I’m good, I’ve got lunch with Mrs. I in a bit,” she says, scanning the courtyard. “You gonna be fine over summer?”

“I dip after the lunch rush, same as always,” he says, back to the window. “Gonna see Jackie? Did you say hi to Gabe?”

“Not yet.”

“You should, and you should give him these,” Bob says, turning to hand her a small paper bag of wrapped tacos. “I heard he missed out on Abby’s pot pie.”

Marisol takes the bag. “He really should just take it when she offers.”

“That’s what we said!”

He goes back to cooking—Marisol hears the lid of a pan get picked up, and the light sizzle brings with it a mouth-watering smell.

Bob moves the pork pieces around. “Is there a reunion today or something?”

_Buzz_. “Hmm?” Marisol says, checking her phone. “What do you mean?” 

“Huh. I thought I saw..." he mumbles, shaking his head. "Never mind.”

She pockets her phone. “Hey, I’m out. Talk to you next week?”

“Walt’s got a show, you heard about that?” he says, peeking yet again. 

“Yeah,” Marisol says. She messes with her necklace. “I gotta see. Might have work.”

“I can give you your check then,” Bob says, enthusiastic as always. “You should go. You need to relax.”

“Hey—”

“That’s _exactly_ what I mean.” He wags the spatula at her. “Bad to be that stressed at your age, trust me.”

“Mm, how come I don’t?” Marisol says, scrunching up her face. She salutes as she walks away. “Get that bread, Bob!”

“Get a life, Marisol!”

* * *

Paula does a double take, shoving Carlos aside as she barrels to the door. “...Do we have an alumni thing today?”

Carlos checks his notes. “No.” _Frown_. “Should we _make_ an alumni thing?”

Paula tchs, waving off whatever she’d seen through her office door window. “Nah, that’s just more money to spend.”

“Elite schools have alumni associations.”

“We _have_ an alumni association.”

“We have Ms. Fuentes visiting every year to check on the food truck.”

Paula hums. “Ah. That must be it.”

Carlos frowns. “Must be what?”

“Saw someone who looked strikingly like Marisol walk down the hallway,” she says, gesturing to the door. “Unless someone on staff now has long black hair and a jean jacket with a cursive patch that says _Suck it, Whitney_ on the back.”

“...Why didn’t we ban that?”

“‘Cause Whitney’s an ass.” Pause. “And threatened to get us fired.”

“Right,” Carlos nods, remembering the announcement of the class valedictorian four years ago. He shivers. “Eugh. Where _is_ she now?”

Paula snickers. “Who cares? She ain’t here.”

* * *

Jackie’s ready with a smile and a pint of ice cream.

(Marisol loves her so, so much.)

“Please tell me you plan to eat the takeout I bought before you obliterate the ice cream,” Jackie says, amused at her student’s instant relief after seeing the pint. 

Marisol pouts. “Why’d you put this out, then?”

“A test of will.”

“I don’t have much right now.”

“Well, good to know.” Jackie returns the pint to her little office fridge, and starts unloading a couple of bento boxes. “Eat up, kiddo.”

Marisol raises the bag in her hand. “One question before I do that: Mr. Iglesias wasn’t in his classroom, and he’s not answering his phone.”

“Ah.”

“Bob said to give him these.”

“That man packed food this morning,” Jackie says, motioning for her to sit. “Either that, or he’s ordering himself tacos for lunch and getting _those_ for dinner. Sit.”

Marisol shrugs and goes for it.

Snooze and lose.

Jackie waits for her to take a few bites before starting. “So what did you want to talk about?”

_Chew_ , _swallow_. “...Just going straight to it.”

“You know how I do.”

Marisol sighs, leaning back in her chair. 

It feels familiar, this room—a cozy, compact little office dotted with pictures of students and Jackie’s diplomas and certificates.

She used to love this room—and honestly, she still does.

But there’s a portion of the wall she’s trying not to look at, because she remembers the Halloween and prom photos that are there, and it’s just gonna make this impossible to get through.

“So we all met up yesterday,” Marisol says, trying to be steady. She’s toying with her necklace pendant. “Me, Grace, Lorenzo, Walt.” Pause. “Mikey.”

“Interesting.”

“We talked.”

“So that’s why you look like a raccoon?” Jackie says, gesturing with her chopsticks.

“...This is bullying,” Marisol monotones.

“Hardly true.” Jackie raises a brow. “But, you ‘talked.’”

“Why do you sound like you don’t believe me?”

“Because I got to know you pretty well over the years, Ms. Fuentes,” Jackie says, smiling in amusement, “and I know for a fact that that’s your _I’m Hiding Something_ voice.”

Marisol exhales. She taps the table with both hands, looking everywhere except—

Never mind, she sees it.

She can’t stop seeing it.

“Did I ever tell you what happened?” she says, distracted by two cheesin’ teens in silly onesies.

_Look at them._

_Look at us._

_What was I thinking?_

Jackie breaks out the ice cream and a spoon.

Her smile’s gone. 

“No, actually,” she says gently, pushing the pint and spoon forward on the table. “But I expect you’ll need these.”

* * *

Truth be told, being sober for almost a decade alleviates some of the pull of alcohol, but this talk is making Gabe about ready to hit a bar and chug under the tap.

“You know when I said ‘neverending telenovela’ that I was _joking_ , right?” Gabe says, deadpan.

Mikey wants to laugh. “I know.”

“You left the ring box in her car.”

“I know.”

“You’re sure she saw it.”

“I know.”

“Mikey,” Gabe says, his thumb and forefinger pressed together, “you two are going to give me high blood pressure.”

“I thought you already had that because of Mr. Ochoa?” Mikey says, complete innocence written on his face and woven into his tone.

“...I don’t get paid enough for this.”

_Squint_. “I’m not paying you.”

“Exactly.” Gabe chugs his coffee. Some bird decides today is a good day to wait by the window and chirp obnoxiously loud. His phone is buzzing again, but it’s all the way on the couch where he’d tossed it a few minutes ago, and it’s not his biggest problem at the moment.

Also, he’s hungry. Because it’s lunch. And he didn’t think that part through.

He takes a deep breath. “...Continue.”

* * *

“And you thought...?” Jackie says, brows raised. 

“I don’t know!” Marisol says, shrugging. She huddles her arms around the ice cream. “What was I supposed to think? It was a fancy-ish ring. In a box. I was twenty.” She breathes. “I just—” _Sigh_. “—we were at _our_ place. It was a ring. _I changed my mind_.”

“But that doesn’t make sense,” Jackie says insistently. There’s a piece to the puzzle that doesn’t quite fit.

“I’m pretty sure he knew I saw it,” Marisol says, a hand swiping over her face. “And after, he definitely knew.” A breath. “I don’t know—I don’t even know why he brought it.” She frowns, staring at the floor, the wall. “Like, why bring an engagement ring when you’re about to break up with someone? Who does that?”

_No one_ , Jackie thinks, leaning back on her chair. She chews at the inside of her cheek, hands woven together in front of her face. 

“No one does that,” she says after a beat, thumbs tapping together. “No one does that on purpose.”

* * *

Mikey bows his head onto his hands, palms digging into his eyes. “I didn’t know what to do.”

“You panicked,” Gabe says simply. He purses his lips. “You knew what she wanted to do and you didn’t want her to feel pressured to stay, so you panicked.”

Mikey nods, not raising his head.

Gabe leans back on his chair. “ _Oof_.”

“Yeah.”

“...So what’d you say?” Gabe says, eyes narrowing. “Did you just cancel dinner and bounce, or—”

Mikey’s still looking at the table, but his hands don’t block the view to his face anymore.

There’s a level of shame that Gabe’s only seen at AA meetings written all over the kid’s face, and he’s not sure if he’s ready to hear the rest of the story.

“...I took her out back. I didn’t want to do it over dinner.” Mikey’s brows knit, and his eyes well up. “I...I said—”

* * *

_“I’m not in love with you anymore.”_

_Marisol’s not sure if she hears him right._

_It barely sounds like him—robotic, almost._

_Detached._

_“I’m not in love with you anymore,” Mikey says again, from five feet away. His hands are in his pockets, like he’s saying something as a throwaway and not a foundation-wrecking truth._

_Marisol frowns. She saw the little black box drop onto his seat when he’d gotten out of the car ahead of her to reserve a table. Saw its contents herself after she’d parked._

_And it’s not like she would’ve said no. Their favorite dinner spot is a no-frills taqueria and this is where he’d thought to do it? Excellent choice, hells yeah, let’s do it._

_But this isn’t what she expected._

_Mikey takes a deep breath. “...I got into Tisch.”_

_“Oh,” Marisol says. She’s still registering the other thing. “Congrats.”_

_“I’m—I need to pack,” he says, scratching the side of his head. “I didn’t—I’m sorry. You don’t have to give anything back, but I...it’s over.”_

_And Marisol just...watches._

_Lets him walk away._

_Out the side door and out of her life._

_And the worst part is the_ relief _._

_The stupid, stupid relief._

* * *

Jackie watches her struggle with it.

Marisol had always been fairly easy to read: competitive, smart, anxious. Carried the world on her shoulders because she thought she had to, and because she wanted to. Always had a plan.

Always had a _backup_ plan.

“You were so young,” Jackie says, putting a hand on the table. “You’re _still_ so young. It’ll get better.”

“Then why does it still hurt _so much_?” Marisol says, eyes shining. She looks up at the ceiling. A moment and a blink, and she looks back down.

Back down at the pictures on the wall.

“Why does it feel like I should’ve _done_ something?” she continues, voice shaky. “Should’ve called him out on it?”

“What would’ve happened, best case scenario?” Jackie asks calmly, leaning forward. “You stay together. Maybe get engaged. Mikey’s on the other side of the country and it’s impossible to meet up because of costs—okay.” 

Marisol flinches.

Jackie looks her in the eye. “You go back on that spiral. You get stressed out again. You find a reason to break up with him because it’s too much to juggle, and you know it. You fight. You _pick_ the fights so there’s more of an excuse. And when you break up, it’s worse, ‘cause now it’s final. Now you hate each other.”

Silence drowns them.

Marisol blinks back tears, pulling herself back together with a spark of a memory. “That’s what he said.”

“Hmm?”

“At the beach yesterday,” Marisol says quietly, a short laugh escaping. She shakes her head. “That’s what he said I’d do, too.”

“He’s smart when he wants to be,” Jackie says, a fond smile appearing. “Besides, he had a good teacher.”

* * *

“Where’s the ring now?” Gabe asks, fingers tapping his mug.

“At home. She dropped it off in my mailbox that night,” Mikey says. He looks up. “I only brought it ‘cause I was supposed to sleep over at Lorenzo’s. I didn’t wanna return it, just...hide it for a while, y’know? Until whenever. Until we were okay again.”

_Until I could ask for real._

Gabe’s got a tiny, sad smile on his face. 

To be young. 

To be in love.

To care more about someone else than your own fragile heart.

He clears his throat. “Did you tell anyone about it? The break up, I mean.” 

Mikey smiles. “My mom.”

“What she say?”

_Laugh_. “She said I was an idiot.”

Gabe can’t help but grin. “Good for her.”

“But after I explained…” Mikey starts, concentrating on his mug, “...she said it was a brave thing to do.” Pause. “But I was still an idiot.”

_Snort_. “That was a lose-lose situation, Mikey.”

Mikey’s lips tug to the side in a half-frown. “I guess.”

Gabe sighs. There’s really no advice he can give out. Not for this. 

Just an ear to hear his woes. A shoulder to cry on. A rock to stand by.

“She…” Mikey says solemnly, trailing off. He’s wistful, watching the bird outside sing with its mate. “...She’s _it_ , Mr. Iglesias.”

Gabe follows his line of sight.

Mikey smiles, because what can you do? 

What can you do but accept what’s happened and accept the truth?

“There’s no one else. There’s _never_ been anyone else.” He sips from his mug, chuckling quietly and shaking his head. “Do you know the crazy part?”

“Oh, that’s not the _entire_ thing?” Gabe says, cracking a grin.

“No,” Mikey says, completely ignoring the jest. He’s lost in something, watching his coffee ride up the sides of the mug as he tilts it forward and back. 

Gabe knows that look.

The kid’s had it for years.

“We grew up,” Mikey says, almost a whisper. “And we changed. She changed. And all I want is to see that happen for the rest of my life.”

One of the birds flies away, still singing.

Still within range.

Something drops into his coffee. 

He sniffles. “Doesn’t even matter if it’s with me.”

* * *

Jackie pours a glass of water and passes it along.

There's a shift in the atmosphere—a post-vent calm, a moment to think.

To reflect.

Marisol shatters it with a growing, incredulous smile. "... _Wow_."

"What is it?" Jackie asks, smiling herself. 

(She knows what it is.)

Marisol tries, fails, and tries again, lips parting and forming the starts of words, the shapes of letters. 

There's a lighthearted huff that finally leads to something.

She looks straight at the pictures.

"I miss him," Marisol says simply. 

She feels lighter. Freer.

The sixteen-year-olds and eighteen-year-olds laugh for the camera and she wonders how different life would be if she could just remember the most important parts.

The foundations.

... _That's_ it. That's what she feels like.

Older.

Better.

"Mrs. Iglesias," Marisol says, capping the ice cream, "how'd you know?"

_How'd you know it would be different?_

_How'd you know it would be_ it _?_

Jackie smiles, cheeks high and a laugh in her chest. "Well," she starts, looking her in the eye, "I looked at you two."

Marisol purses her lips, but it doesn't stop the smile from reaching her eyes. She nods in acknowledgement, plopping the pint down on the table. "You won't believe me," she says, pausing for a moment.

Just a moment.

Just to remember.

Just to picture a play and a dance and a billion other things.

"But I thought you'd say that."

* * *

Mikey's phone rings. 

"Emergency?" Gabe asks when he stands.

"Aw, no, I just have work in a bit," Mikey says sheepishly. His stomach grumbles. "...And I didn't eat yet."

"We should stop by Bob's," Gabe says, heading to his phone. "I bet he's been holding my ord—"

_Neverending telenovela_ , Gabe thinks, ready to have his blood pressure checked. There are three missed calls from Marisol and a short stream of texts pretty much detailing her current location and the current location of his tacos.

He wants a raise.

"What's up?" Mikey asks, about to unlock the door.

_Buzz_.

Great.

"Jackie's on her way over," Gabe says, but he's clenching his jaw and pursing his lips.

Mikey frowns. "Why do you look upset...?"

"I wouldn't classify this as upset."

"Uh. Okay."

"I would classify it as stressed."

Mikey squints, eternally confused.

Gabe clears his throat. "I suggest you step away from the door." He types something in his phone.

* * *

" _Oh_ ," Jackie says, stopping mid-step. 

Marisol almost trips, doubling back. "What's up?"

"Um," Jackie says, wincing, "how are you feeling about a little reunion?"

"Wh—no."

"Apparently you two are still very much on the same wavelength," Jackie says, finding it a l _iii_ ttle bit funny.

* * *

"Wait, I thought they had lunch _out_?" Mikey says, speech speeding up.

"They apparently did...not," Gabe says. He juts his thumb out to the window. "Want a quick getaway?"

"I—"

He almost says yes.

But.

"...No," Mikey says, taking a deep breath. "No, um—I'm good."

"You were crying like one minute ago," Gabe deadpans.

"I'm good, I promise," Mikey says, rolling his eyes. "I got it out of my system."

* * *

"But _you_ should be the one to like, _talk_ ," Marisol says awkwardly. "Y'know. 'Cause you're the teacher."

"I'm a guidance counselor," Jackie squints. 

"The most _important_ type of teacher."

"Missed your blatant teacher's pet behavior."

"Really?"

Jackie hands her the tacos. "Sure. But I still believe in immersion therapy."

"You never brought that up," Marisol mumbles, walking up to the door.

"You were fine a minute ago."

Marisol turns for a second, frowning. "Just because I had a breakthrough does not mean I'm ready right this second."

"Open the door, Fuentes," Jackie says, crossing her arms.

* * *

The doorknob's caught.

Gabe shoves Mikey to the door.

"Hey," Mikey hisses, a couple of strides away.

"I thought you were good?" Gabe teases.

"That— _I thought you were gonna open it_ ," Mikey says, as quietly as possible.

"Nah." Gabe shoos him. "C'mon, man. I need sustenance."

_Ughhhh_.

A step, and another.

He sees her through the glass, but she's trying her best not to look inside.

Cool. 

Totally fine.

He turns the knob.

* * *

"Hey, Mr. Iglesias, I got your—" The bag hits a chest, but it's definitely not the intended target.

Next time, she needs to remember to double check her surroundings.

Especially when the Iglesias' are involved.

"I, _uh_ ," Mikey says, frozen.

" _Um_ ," Marisol says, also frozen.

Jackie looks at Gabe.

Gabe looks at Jackie.

They roll their eyes.

"I'm too hungry for this," Gabe says, walking through them like no earth-shattering moment has just occured, and taking his tacos with him. He offers Jackie his arm. "I got five minutes left on break—you in?"

"Of course," she says, taking it. She nods at the two love-in-limbo-birds. "Hey, you guys know about Walt's thing?"

"Next week," Mikey says, alert to everything. He’s still staring at his ex.

"I'm going," Marisol says directly to them as they leave, but very much sneaking a glance at Mikey.

He catches it. "You're going?"

There's a small smile on her lips when she faces him again. A little flash of something from before when she speaks. "Yeah," she shrugs nonchalantly, "I'll see you there?"

Mikey nods continuously as she walks away, and he can't help it. He spins in place, alone and trying to find some other living thing to let him know he's not dreaming.

He spots the window.

Both birds are singing.

He smiles.

* * *

###  _part iii._

Lorenzo lets her walk around first. He’s the only one with his own apartment, and she’s the only one leaving again when summer ends, so there’s time to let the bomb drop. Time to enjoy company and the better side of life.

Marisol looks around his photo wall, fingers thrumming on her hips as she scans the pictures.

She grins. 

“This is a good one,” she says, tapping a picture of her and Rita at the homecoming game during their first year of college. The girls had swapped styles for the day—a lost bet made between them and the boys—and Rita looks like she’s ready to kill the cameraman. Marisol’s laughing so hard she’s falling over, trying to hold Rita back by a loose grip on her arm. “Grace had way too much fun giving Rita the floral sweaters.”

Lorenzo walks over, laughing. "Dude, if we weren't already broken up, she woulda dumped me right there."

"Yeah, she was not happy." Marisol wrinkles her nose. "You seen her yet?"

"Since I got back?" 

"Yeah."

Lorenzo shakes his head. "She's busy. Might meet up at Rakeem’s tomorrow, but I think she's at least going to Walt's show."

"Everyone's going," Marisol nods, distracted.

"I mean, most of us," Lorenzo shrugs. 

"Yeah, everyone."

_Blink_.

Wait.

"... _Everyone_?" Lorenzo asks, brows digging deep. " _You're_ going?"

Marisol shrugs, scanning the pictures again. "I'm going."

" _Mikey's_ going?"

"Last Mr. Iglesias said, yeah."

"And you're okay with that?" Lorenzo asks, tilting his head.

_Inhale_. "Yes," Marisol says with thinly veiled annoyance, "as hard as it is to believe, I'm okay with that."

"You know you guys were both a mess like four days ago, right?" Lorenzo says, jaw hanging. He points at his couch. "Walt made sure Mikey didn't leave that thing until he slept at least six hours."

Marisol's lips twitch.

Lorenzo gapes at her. "...You two had a _thing_ , didn't you?"

"It wasn't an us two thing," Marisol says, pursing her lips. Her face is warm. "It was like, a therapist thing."

"Indirect thing."

"Indirect thing." Pause. "Listen, it's not a big deal."

Lorenzo looks to the side, quickly scanning for and tapping on a handful of pictures in quick succession. "Graduation. Sixth grade. Winter formal, 2021. The Scottish play—"

"Please tell me you got over not saying Macb—"

" _The Scottish play_ ," Lorenzo reiterates sternly, cutting her off.

Marisol raises her hands in defense. "Fine. _The Scottish play_." She nods at the wall. "What's your point?"

"Anything with you two," he says, a fond little smile on his lips, "is _always_ a big deal."

"Sixth grade wasn't a big deal," Marisol counters, squinting and crossing her arms.

"Sixth grade was when you started _liking_ his stupid ass," Lorenzo throws back, smirking in her face. "And don't argue, I got witnesses and videos."

"I hope you remember I'm studying law and I can sue you one day," she deadpans.

He has zero fear. He pokes her forehead. "Bring it."

"You did not—"

Lorenzo pivots, a hand up stroking his chin. "Now let's see..."

"Lorenzo!" Marisol says, nudging him.

He doesn't budge. "Not now, I'm tryina figure out where to put your next picture—"

"You're the _worst_ —"

"—hmm, beside the Iglesias wedding pics? Lessee—"

"—I hate your guts."

"Get in line," Lorenzo says, tilting his head to throw her a cheshire grin. "El chupacabra's way ahead of you."

Marisol scrunches up her face. "When'd you go looking for chupacabras?"

"You're not the only one with secrets."

"What's that supposed to mean!"

"I think you know what that means." Lorenzo wiggles his brows. "Still got that spark, huh?"

"...I'm not answering that, that's presumptive," Marisol says, clearing her throat. She ditches him for the kitchen. "I'm raiding your coffee stash."

Lorenzo gawks. "What do you mean that's presumptive?" Pause. "Since when do you say 'presumptive'?"

"It's called _college_ , Lorenzo."

"It's called _I don't care_ , Marisol."

Her voice comes back muffled. "Dude, why do you have so many sardine cans?"

"I'll answer that if you answer my question first."

Marisol looks over. "Deal."

"Deal," Lorenzo says, gesturing to her. "Go on."

"We, uh," she says, going back to the cupboard. "I think we're good. Not _that_ good. But we're good."

"And that's presumptive?" Lorenzo asks, voice going up an octave. " _Girl_."

A sigh, and the crinkle of a foil bag. "...I miss him." Marisol closes the cupboard and goes to lean on the counter. "I miss him. That's pretty obvious."

"Yeah, and he looked like garbage last time I saw him," Lorenzo scoffs, meeting her in the kitchen. He mirrors her. "So. The dude’s a mess. You miss the dude. Now what?"

Marisol shrugs, tugging her lips to the side. "I don't know. I just know I don't wanna mess it up before there's anything to mess up."

Lorenzo looks a lot like Rita from that old photo. "I don't follow."

_Frown_.

"What?” He shrugs. “I don't. Explain it to me like I'm five."

Marisol rolls her eyes. "Please get off Reddit.” Pause. "I want to see...if being friends is still on the table." 

A deep, deep breath. 

A slow, slow exhale. 

"...I wanna see if that could be enough."

* * *

He’s gotten better.

Grace stands at the back of the theater, heart and head caught up in the scene. She’s not exactly sure who’s who, but she does know Mikey’s playing a secondary character and is stealing the show: he’s some kinda greaser, all rough edges and tough words.

It’s funny, knowing how harmless he is in real life.

But that’s acting.

The scene ends, and the director calls it. Cast and crew relax, milling about onstage and back. Mikey goes to sit at the ledge, dangling his legs. He juts out his lips, nodding to some music being played on a phone by the stage manager.

Feels a lot chiller than Hernandez’s productions, at least. 

Mikey grins, spotting her. “Ey, Grace!”

She waves.

Mikey says something to his director, jumps down, and makes his way to her. 

“You’re in a good mood,” Grace says, raising a brow.

“You’re talking to me again,” Mikey says, copying her.

“Touché.”

“We can step out, the break’s gonna be a while,” Mikey says, gesturing to the door. “Lighting’s testing stuff out.”

“You’re in a good mood,” Grace says again, following him to the hallway. “And I hear Marisol’s in a good mood.”

Mikey closes the door behind them. He’s blank. “Huh.”

Grace raises her chin. “You know who I heard that from?”

“Walt?”

“Lorenzo.”

“Huh.”

“Why am I hearing that Marisol’s in a good mood, Mikey?”

He shrugs, confused. “I don’t know. She did see Mrs. I a few days ago, though.”

“Interesting,” Grace hums, squinting at him. “And you know this how?”

“I ran into her at Wilson,” Mikey says, like it isn’t a groundbreaking announcement. “I was talking to Mr. Iglesias—”

“You ran into her,” Grace says, jaw dropping.

“—yeah, at Wilson. Anyway—”

“At Wilson.”

“—That’s what I said. And also—”

“You two are like, next level,” Grace says, volume rising as much as her on her tiptoes. She pushes her glasses up. “Next level.”

"Nothing _happened_ ," Mikey says, laughing. "She was talking to Mrs. I. I was talking to Mr. I. He thought they went out for lunch. They didn't, so we ran into them. That's all."

"Next. Level," Grace says again, enunciating carefully. She points up at him. "Get it together."

"It's cool, okay?" Mikey says, backing up. "We're cool. No fighting." He crosses his heart.

Grace shakes her head. "I wish I meant that."

Mikey sighs. "Grace"

"Boy, you give me one more excuse, and I swear you'll walk back into rehearsal looking like you just got into a _real_ street fight," Grace says, dropping in volume. She's squinting, glaring a bit, and there's a sort of ferocity in her posture that Mikey hasn't really seen in her since high school.

He hopes her thesis team didn't have to see this side of her, because yeah.

He's kinda scared.

"...No excuse," he says calmly, leaning back just in case. "Just. I think we're cool now.” He sighs.

It might be the thick air of the theater hallway, heated by the summer weather. Might be the fact that he’s still half in thought about the next scene he has to do, which includes a talk with a girl he’s trying to impress. Could even just be him, the way he’s wired—overanalyzing and underexpecting all at once.

Maybe it’s one thing.

Maybe it’s everything.

Maybe it doesn’t matter.

Only one thing matters.

One.

Simple.

Thing.

“…We’re good,” he says quietly, kicking at nothing. “And I really don’t wanna mess that up."

* * *

Walt slurps his soda so loud that Jackie has to do a double-take when she starts for the restroom.

He just kinda gives her an innocent look, eyes redirecting to his target for this fine evening.

_Slurp_. “...So you’re, like, _whipped_ , right?”

Marisol’s really glad she’s off-duty for the day, because spilling her soda on her Denny’s uniform would severely…well, suck. She glares at Walt, but that doesn’t do much to make him stop smirking.

Gabe grins, all cheeks and tiny giggles as her points between them. “Love seeing this.”

“When did you start hating me?” Marisol says, teeth clenched. 

“I don’t hate you, I just think you’re incompetent.”

Marisol gawks. “You—”

“Only at lying about this.”

“ _Hey_ —”

“Hey,” Mikey says, appearing beside her like a fun little magic trick at this fun little time. He gives them all a small wave as he settles down on the free seat across Marisol. “Rehearsal let out early.”

Gabe and Walt wear matching grins, indiscreetly looking between the two (soon-to-not-be-)exes as if they’re witnessing a US Open championship match.

(Marisol decides that she hates them.)

“Where’s Mrs. I?” Mikey asks, completely oblivious to the war beginning at their table. He looks around the room, pout in place, and okay, Marisol knows she misses him, but the flip-flopping, dolphin-sized butterflies in her stomach are getting ridiculous.

“She’ll be back soon,” Walt says. 

He’s talking in his salesman voice.

Marisol wants to know what he’s up to, but that would require caring, which would require not hating, and she’s not giving in to this manipulation.

“Who’d you have to make out with today?” Walt continues casually, and Mikey turns as red as the menu cover.

“I didn’t—” Mikey says, eyes blown wide. He glances—he _glances_ , sue him—at Marisol for a fraction of a second, and it’s like the clanging of a very loud bell in her mind and his. 

He’s stuck for a moment. It’s panic from embarrassment, and panic from something else.

Panic from a connection forming.

Panic from not knowing if he’s imagining it.

Marisol smirks. “C’mon, Mikey. It’s just acting. Like senior year, remember?”

Senior year, when he had a different co-star for a romantic play at school.

Senior year, when she didn’t even mind, because it meant she didn’t have to get on that stage and die to the world all over again, and because who cares?

She knew him.

He knew her.

They were solid.

It would be fine.

(And it was.)

Mikey relaxes. 

_Okay._

_Okay, so it’s real._

_So she’s at the other end of the string._

_So this is still okay._

“—I didn’t,” he repeats anyway, pointedly at Walt. “We don’t even end up together.”

“Very star-crossed of you,” Gabe says.

(Marisol would kick his shin, but that would be a tell, so.)

“Hey, it pays the bills,” Mikey says, leaning back in his chair.

Walt raises a brow. “Since when do you pay the bills?”

Mikey smirks. “Since I got _commercials_ , bro.”

“I got the wrong talent,” Marisol says, clicking her tongue. She gestures to them both. “All the money’s going to you guys.”

“One of you better be paying for my retirement,” Gabe says, pouting.

Marisol hums. “I can draft a contract for that.”

Gabe looks at the boys expectantly. “Any takers?”

“First Netflix deal check is going to my mom,” Walt says, “but I got you.”

“Not if I get a movie first,” Mikey says, and Gabe’s regretting the joke.

It sounds familiar, their competitive banter—and he’s already tired knowing it’ll take the entire dinner to diffuse.

His sole consolation is knowing Marisol’s not in this battle, because _whoo_ -wee.

That would _definitely_ push him to early retirement.

“Statistically, Walt has a better shot,” Marisol says, and yeah, Gabe spoke too soon.

He feels like he’s stuck in a classroom again when the three of them start talking over each other, engaged in a war of words based off a hypothetical situation. Walt’s rubbing it into Mikey’s face that Marisol agrees—which is never good, especially after that issue in their sophomore year, because a strike to his honor is always what makes Mikey’s blood boil. The thespian throws something back about stable work the same time Marisol defends herself from being on either side—“I’m just stating something, don’t drag me into this!”—and promptly gets dragged into it.

By the time Jackie’s back at their table, their server’s waiting on the wings for an opening to take their orders, and Gabe’s got the face of a man no longer interested in life nor living.

“I was gone for _under_ _eight_ _minutes_ ,” Jackie says, not gently.

“I don’t know why I thought letting them coexist in the same room would make them stop acting like…them,” Gabe says, exhausted.

Walt throws a jab about snooty Ivy-leaguers, and Mikey switches gears to side with Marisol.

Gabe sighs, waving to their server. 

Jackie cocks a brow. “You’re gonna ignore this?”

He nods. “Some things aren’t worth the energy.”

* * *

Marisol’s not sure how they manage to get through dinner.

Or, at the very least, how _she_ manages to get through dinner.

She’d agreed to a group meeting, and knowing Walt’s propensity for stunt-pulling, she thought she’d been mentally prepared. Their (loud) group bickering episode was fine—brought back a feeling of camaraderie that only the closest of friends could know, even if they were acting like kids again. But then the food came and the dust settled, and their laughter took over, like so many other times. A smooth transition from a competitive battle to a round of roasting, and down to ridiculous giggles. 

And it was fine.

She was appropriately composed at each stage.

Ready.

Until she would see Mikey.

Mikey, across her, smiling like a goof at Mr. Iglesias’ quips. Mikey, sharing stories with that same lilt in his voice. Mikey, unreadable for most of the night, except when he would be concentrated on her, and _only_ her.

And Marisol’s not stupid.

She knows the guy.

Knows what he’s like.

Knows his tics.

The tiny tug on his lips. The slight widening of his eyes. Little traitors of emotion that he’s mastered on stage, but forgets when he’s off. An open book even if he’s looking emotionless, at least to her.

She knows _him_.

And she knows she misses him. Knows she loves him. Knows she’s _in_ love with him.

But then they lock eyes at a matched glance, and time slows. Everyone else is a blur in the background, voices and sounds contorted until it’s just…

_Them_.

And she’s seeing every line on his face and every shining light on his eyes and it’s scary.

It’s just _really_ _scary_ to know she’s never been in love like this. 

To know she’s never loved, in _any_ capacity, a human being so much.

There’s no textbook to tell her what to do—no lab exercise with instructions, no case study with observations. It’s _feelings_. It’s fragile, and vulnerable, and beyond understanding.

But then, that’s who they were.

That’s who they were before.

So Marisol’s not sure how they manage to survive dinner.

But they do.

And when they all step outside and their party dwindles—a high school teacher and a high school guidance counselor really need to be in bed as early as possible on a weeknight—she feels the weight on her heart.

Walt starts talking to him about staging and logistics and she’s not sure what to do anymore. 

About Mikey.

About her.

About this whole mess they’re in.

...But she loves him.

She’s _sure_ she loves him.

* * *

“If I ditch now, you promise not to get all weird?” Walt asks, leaning back on the rails. 

It’s getting late, and Mikey knows Walt has to pick his mom up from an AA meeting. Marisol’s on the phone a few yards away, carrying a conversation with her mom about—well, it sounds like something about a TV setting, but they’re too far away for him to hear her clearly over the outdoor chatter from neighboring restaurants. 

Guess he takes too long to answer.

Walt snorts. “That’s a no.”

“Whuh?” Mikey says, distracted.

“I gotta go,” Walt says, offering a fist to bump.

Mikey taps it. “Drive safe, dude.”

“Don’t get all weird, man,” Walt says, a little lower. He nods, discreetly, at Marisol. “I actually like it when we’re all chilling. Would be dope if we’re all still cool when we’re at my show.”

“I’m not gonna be weird,” Mikey says, on autopilot. He smiles, sad, looking down. “See you soon, Walt.”

Walt inhales deeply, stepping away with one last shoulder pat to his friend. “Good luck, Mikey.”

He steps away, miming a goodbye to Marisol as he passes her, and she waves him off with a smile. 

Mikey watches her continue her conversation.

She’s still the same—that tug back when she’s about to make a dig, the quick squint when she hears something questionable. Animated movements straight from her shoulders. The jaw drops.

There’s one big thing that’s new, though.

He barely hears her, but he knows. 

She’s speaking in Spanish.

Not broken up like before—clear and proper, just like she’d always wanted. It’s still a little choppy: she’s pausing every now and then, her free hand snapping at her side as she tries to remember a word or a phrase. But it’s progress, and he knows languages aren’t her strong suit, so he’s proud of her.

And he’s still trying to figure out if he can live with this.

Twelve feet apart and dying to say something he used to be able to say daily.

Ten feet apart and hoping she doesn’t think he’s a special kind of moron to even try it.

It’s hard.

It’s hard to know somebody.

Marisol turns her back to him at some point and he’s stuck remembering dinner—stolen glances and everything fading to black. Feeling his heart go from a gallop to a hard stop. 

Hearing nothing. 

Seeing her.

Being so starkly aware that nothing has changed, and nothing will change. Because it’s him, with her, and that’s just how it is.

Because he’s been in love once, and it never faded.

And yeah, he loves other people. He loves his family. His friends. He loves his teachers and castmates and his crew.

But he doesn’t love them like he loves her.

_In_ love and oft-loved.

So this is hard.

Her changing and growing and defying expectations is hard.

Because he’s proud of her.

And he loves her.

And he’s in love with her.

And he can’t even let her know.

* * *

It’s pretty late.

Mikey’s barely a foot away from her, and it’s pretty late.

Marisol’s stealing glances at him, and it’s pretty late. 

They’re walking aimlessly back and forth on the block, and it’s pretty- _freakin’_ -late.

Mikey sneezes.

Marisol’s hand is on his arm in under a second. “Are you okay?”

“Allergies,” he says sheepishly.

She frowns. “You’re not getting sick, are you?”

“It’s just allergies.”

“Mikey.”

“I promise I’ll tell you if I’m getting sick,” Mikey says, lax and laughing.

It’s so easy, what they have. 

It’s so unbelievably easy.

There’s a silence that they end up in that’s not altogether terrible—she’s looking at him, he’s looking at her, and they’re smiling a lil’ goofy, and it’s pretty late, still, but that’s okay.

“…Good,” Marisol says quietly, finally, after who-knows-how-long.

“Good,” Mikey says, just as quiet, while there’s no one near them.

“…I’m sorry,” Marisol whispers.

And maybe he’s imagining it, but she seems a lot closer than when he last blinked. “…For what?”

(Maybe breathing is a thing he doesn’t remember how to do anymore.)

A beat.

He watches her glance down—something on his face—and it’s a little too familiar.

Another beat—slow, like an ancient drum.

The only thing they can hear is their own heartbeats.

And another.

She clears her throat. “You were right,” she says, looking back up to his eyes. It’s almost mechanical, the way she pulls back—almost like someone’s doing it for her, because the only place she wants to be is right there with him. “At the beach. You were right.”

Some spell’s broken, but it’s alright. Mikey gives her a tiny smile. “It’s okay—”

Her throat feels scratchy. “You didn’t deserve that.”

“Marisol,” he says gently, “it’s okay.”

_I know my place._

_In this world._

_With you._

_I know my place._

Marisol shakes her head. There’s a different kind of sadness in the way she looks at him.

A little guilt.

A lot of shame.

“Mikey,” she says, so carefully, like it’s half-shattered glass, “you were _always_ there. And you always _wanted_ to be there. I shouldn’t have…you didn’t deserve that.”

When she blinks, he’s as close as she was before.

“It’s okay,” he says, so gentle, so soft. He’s looking straight at her, locked on her eyes and completely unwavering. “It was my fault, too.”

“It really wasn’t,” she laughs, bitter and amused all at once. 

“I broke up with you.”

“I was going to.”

“I know.”

“I was going to throw all of that away.” The breeze picks up. “…Us. Us away.”

He says it more like a promise. “I know.”

“Why are you…” She inhales, because it doesn't make sense. “Why are you still _good_ to me?”

“I told you,” he breathes, “I can’t change.”

There’s a choice she can make.

Now. Here.

A ball in her court and a few words to mend this. 

She sees him watching her.

Waiting.

He’s always been waiting.

“Hey,” she starts, her lips twitching to a smile, “after Walt’s show—”

_RIIIIIIING!_

_I’m going to murder him_ , Marisol thinks, glancing at her phone. Rakeem’s silly face on it has her ready to drop him as a friend.

Mikey sees the screen. “Aren’t you gonna answer that?”

She shakes her head, clicking the call off. “He’s just reminding me about a thing I need to pick up at his place.”

“He’s back?”

“Yeah.”

Mikey pouts. “Since when?”

“Sunday?” Marisol says, scrunching up her face. “When was the official announcement on the draft?”

“Friday.”

“Oh, then Saturday.” Pause.

The moment’s gone.

(Rakeem is dead to her.)

Mikey blinks, tension gone from his shoulders. “…So.”

Marisol swallows. “So.”

“…I’ll see you?” Mikey asks, brows knitting lightly. “At the show?”

There goes her courage. “…Yeah.”

He grins, immediate, and her insides practice gymnastics routines. “Okay. Cool.” He clears his throat and looks around, finding they’d somehow made it to the edge of the parking area. “I’ll—it’s late, I gotta be up at like 7—”

“I gotta go too,” she says, awkwardly polite. “So, um. The show.”

“Yeah.” 

“Yeah.”

He smiles again, dimples highlighted by the streetlamps. “I’ll see you, Marisol.”

“Later, Mikey,” she says, the softest smile on her face.

He walks backwards, a spring in his step even after he tears away from her gaze.

It’s brutal to exist, is what Marisol realizes, watching him go. She turns away, heading down to the opposite end of the lot when—

“Marisol?” Mikey calls, and she pivots, confusion written on her face. 

He looks a little nervous.

She can’t figure out why.

“That—that thing you were saying,” he starts, and _Oh, crap_ — “The one about after Walt’s show?”

It’s pretty late.

Mikey’s already too far from her, and it’s pretty late.

Marisol’s staring steadily at him, and it’s pretty late.

They’re shrouded in fluorescent lights, standing stock-still in a public parking lot while tipsy bar-goers sing loudly half a mile away, and it’s pretty. Freakin’. Late.

Marisol grins.

Mikey’s ready to pass out. “What were you gonna say?”

“Nothing,” she says breathlessly.

He frowns. “You sure?”

“It’s nothing.”

“Marisol.”

“I promise,” Marisol says, lax and loving, “I’ll tell you if it becomes something.”

It’s too easy, what they have.

It’s too indescribably easy.

* * *

Grace relaxes, sinking into the couch and curling up and around a pillow with simple contentment. She hums the theme song playing on TV quietly, and doesn’t flinch when someone places a bowl of popcorn just slightly over her line of sight.

“Did you put butter?” she asks, eyes glued to the sitcom playing on screen.

“Are there people who don’t?” Rakeem asks, plopping down by her head. He scooches, and she raises her head enough to lie on his lap.

Grace looks up at him. “Is this unsalted butter.”

He shoves a handful of popcorn into his mouth. _Chew_. “Tha’ wa’n’t a ques’on.”

“Dude.”

_Swallow_. “It’s butter, and I put salt after.”

“It’s not the same mix.”

“Babe.”

“It’s called _culture_ , Rakeem.”

“It’s called _My Mom Didn’t Buy Salted Butter_ , Grace.”

“Get a room,” Lorenzo says lazily from the loveseat. His feet are up, cross-legged and head lying on the backrest.

“F’real,” Rita says, from the floor by him, face scrunched up as she continues to chew on her gum.

“Can you even say that,” Rakeem says, squinting at them both. 

“We’re not dating anymore, so yeah,” Rita says, before chugging a whole bottle of soda. 

“Das still hot though,” Lorenzo says, jutting out his lips.

“Ew,” Grace says, covering her view with the popcorn bowl.

“…Do you not see yourselves?”

“Right now, I don’t see anything.”

Lorenzo rolls his eyes. He nods at Rakeem. “Is Marisol still stopping by?”

“Dunno,” Rakeem says, stretching his arms over the backrest. “She dropped the call.”

“Since when does Marisol not answer a phone call?” Rita snorts, right on cue with a laugh track.

Grace frowns, looking up at her boyfriend. “Wait. Did she tell you why she couldn’t come tonight?”

“Work and dinner plans,” Rakeem says, shrugging. He grabs a handful of popcorn, tossing them one at a time into his mouth. _Crunch_. “Why?”

Grace sits up.

“What’s wr—”

“Lorenzo, Walt’s got dinner tonight, right?” Grace says, gears turning in her head.

Lorenzo’s eyes widen. “And you said Mikey was meeting Mr. I for dinner—”

“ _Oh no_.”

They move, hopping off their respective couches and running to the door. Grace tosses her pillow directly onto Rakeem’s face and Lorenzo jostles Rita’s cap and snacks as they make their getaway.

“Grace!” Rakeem says, loud enough to reach the front door and possibly annoy his parents in their room at the same time. 

“Whassup?” Rita asks, leaning just far enough to peek through the furniture.

“Might be nothing,” Grace says, shoving her shoes on.

“Miiiight be the end of one or more of the musketeers,” Lorenzo says, pitch rising. He pats his pockets. “ _Keys_ , where are my—”

_Buzz. Buzz, buzz._

Rakeem raises a brow along with his phone. _Click_. “Yo?”

Grace and Lorenzo freeze.

Rakeem nods, hopping over the couch— _Show off_ , Grace thinks—and jogging to the door. “Yeah, one sec.” 

His friends move, and Rakeem hangs up the same time he pulls the door open.

“Party’s over already?” Marisol asks, looking at Lorenzo holding his shoes and Grace gripping on two sets of keys.

“They bein’ dramatic,” Rakeem says, motioning for her to come in. He closes the door after her, walking back into the living room and down the hall. “I’ll get the player. You sure you’re not staying?”

“Work tomorrow,” Marisol shrugs. She waves at Rita. “Sup?”

“Hell if I know,” Rita shrugs, turning back to the show.

Marisol quirks a brow.

Lorenzo coughs. “You had dinner?”

“Mr. Iglesias loves an employee discount,” Marisol says.

“So you _did_ have dinner with him,” Grace says, and something in her tone says she’s not talking about Mr. Iglesias.

“Did you know Walt still hasn’t figured this out?” Marisol says, smooth in deflection. She gestures to the hallway Rakeem disappeared to. “Seriously. And he knows you two’ve been out together every night.”

“ _Ohhhh_ ,” Rita says, peeking again. “Oh, _dang_.” She waves her hand back and forth at their little group. “I get what’s happening.”

Lorenzo crosses his arms at Marisol. “If I call Mikey right now, is he gonna be full sad boy again?”

“You guys need a hobby,” Marisol says.

“That’s. Not. A. No.”

She rolls her eyes. “He’s fine. It was chill.”

“Mikey?” Grace scoffs, “Chill?”

“ _Hey_ ,” Marisol says, stern and warning.

“You?” Lorenzo scoffs, “Chill?”

“ _Hey_!” 

“Ha,” Rita laughs, commandeering the popcorn for herself. “This is gold.” 

Marisol motions to her. “I thought we were friends?”

“We are. This is how I show affection.”

“Ugh.”

“It needs a new cable,” Rakeem says, walking back into the room. He waves with the DVD player. “Should be fine if you keep it bent, but I think your mom’s gonna hate trying to find the right angle every time she uses it.” Pause, and a quick scan of the room. “…What happened?”

“Harassment,” Marisol says the same time the others say, “Mikey.”

Marisol frowns. “ _Harassment_ ,” she repeats, teeth gritted.

Rakeem’s brows raise; there’s excitement in his growing smirk, and Marisol feels herself dying slowly. “You and Mikey again, huh? That’s what I’m talkin’ about!”

“…Gimme the player.”

“I need deets.” He gestures to everyone around them. “ _We_ need deets.”

“The deets are me not causing you a career-ending injury before your career even starts,” Marisol says, a hand out and waiting for him to pass that player.

“Tha’s telenovela stuff, oooh,” Rita calls from the couch, nodding approvingly. “Kick his ass, Marisol!”

“ _Do not kick his ass_ ,” Grace deadpans.

“Player,” Marisol says, like a dare.

Rakeem hands it over, pouting. “Fine. Be that way.”

“You owe me deets,” Lorenzo says as Marisol steps out the door.

“And me!” Grace says, watching Marisol’s car’s lights blink on.

“I do not,” Marisol sing-songs, stepping into her car. “Have fun, don’t do anything stupid!”

“Says the one driving around instead of mackin’ her ex,” Rita snorts, popping up by the door.

(She’s lucky Marisol’s already out of the driveway.)

Lorenzo waits til the tail lights disappear around a corner. He takes out his phone and spins it flat on his forefinger. He’s grinning, all cheeks, and darting his eyes from one friend to the next.

The phone stills. “ _So…_ who’s up for grillin’ Mikey?”

* * *

Tony’s having a bad day.

…Not that days for him are usually good, but it’s an exceptional badness when it’s summer, he’s getting called in to teach summer school, and the only thing Abby’s concerned about today is the lovelife of an ex-student.

And it isn’t even _her_ ex-student.

“ _Abby_ ,” he says, ready to hit the table with his face, “why do you even _care_? The kid graduated years ago! And plus, I don’t think Marisol would appreciate you being all up in her business.”

“You told me what happened,” Abby deadpans, cat mug in hand. The text reading _CAT-a-bunga!_ and the picture showing a surfing cat by the beach seems to mock him.

“Yeah, but you winked at me,” Tony says, rolling his eyes as if that would explain it. “I _had_ to tell you.”

“I had dirt in my eye. It was closed when I got into the room.”

“But you opened it. So it counts.”

Abby purses her lips. “…How did you get a degree?”

“Convinced my prof to let me do a partnered thesis with Gabe,” Tony grins. “Genius, huh?”

“Not even a little bit,” Abby says, standing. She places her mug by the sink, and heads for the door. “I’m going to Jackie.”

“She’s talking to a kid!”

“So was I!”

_Hmph._

_Kids wish they look like m_ e, Tony thinks.

But hey.

At least he doesn’t have to hear about Mikey and Marisol’s rekindling romance all over again.

* * *

“I thought you were going to talk to Jackie?” Gabe says, pouting. He motions to his wife. “She’s here. Why do I have to be included?”

“Because you love those kids,” Abby says, getting ready to gush about love.

“I also love the kids currently in my class,” Gabe deadpans.

“But those kids were in your big, experimental, _Take Over The World Because We Can_ -class,” Jackie says, not helping. “Like, _c’mon_. They went to our _wedding_.”

“…Don’t you have a meeting?” Gabe frowns.

Jackie shrugs. “JJ’s off and enjoying life again.” Pause. “I have about twenty-five minutes at best.”

“Aw, how is she?” Abby asks, switching gears.

Jackie grins. “She’s good! Picking schools—”

“This—” Gabe says, pointing a finger at them in turn, “—needs to pick a topic.”

Abby pouts, sulking back. “ _Fiiine_.” A giddy smile lights up her face. “So how are the kids?”

“I meant pick the topic related to the kid still currently going to school here.”

“That’s no fun.”

“We don’t really know,” Jackie says, to the rescue. She pats Gabe’s arm. “But it’s been pretty tough on us, to be honest.”

“…It would be great if they fixed things,” Gabe relents, treading carefully, “but if they could at least… _function_ around each other, I think that would make my year.” He sighs, shrugging his shoulders.

Feels like the world’s topsy-turvy, still, right now.

Feels wrong to see two of his favorite kids not quite right with each other.

He clicks his tongue. “Ah, I dunno. They were great to watch grow up. They were good friends. And they were solid— _really_ solid. But life…” He shakes his head.

Jackie moves her hand to his, intertwining their fingers. “Life has some curveballs,” she says softly, watching her husband bow his head.

“And you never know,” Gabe says, taking a deep breath. He looks at his wife, a small smile creeping up his face. “Sometimes it’s more like a boomerang.”

Jackie smiles.

Abby does, too.

* * *

“ _So like, what’s the game plan here?_ ” Lorenzo asks, some noisy traffic coming through on his end of the call.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Marisol asks, knowing exactly what he’s talking about.

She’s tossed about six outfits back on her bed and after checking the one in her hands in the mirror, that number rises to seven.

This is most definitely the messiest her room’s been since, say, prom, and that was more because Grace raided her closet and there was a whole two-hour crash course on makeup.

(There’s still some powder on her ceiling and Marisol pledges to never get that cleaned up, if only for the memories.)

Lorenzo snorts, and she’s determined to not let him know she knows she’s caught. “ _The lady doth protest._ ”

“It was a question,” Marisol says, rummaging through her closet.

_Nope. Nope. Nope. I thought I donated this? Nope. No—_

“ _So the lady doth be, I dunno, super aggressive about a hypothetical game plan?_ ”

_Perfect_ , Marisol thinks, smiling like an idiot. “It was the right level of aggression, considering you’re addicted to conspiracy theories.”

“ _Hey._ ”

“Hi.”

“ _I’m not_ addicted _._ ”

“Says the guy with the bunker under his house.” Marisol picks up her gem for the night, moving closer to her phone on its spot on her bed.

Honking replies.

“What was that?”

A grunt. “ _Just Long Beach being Long Beach_ ,” Lorenzo says, and she can hear the roll of his eyes. “ _And that’s my dad’s bunker. Don’t pretend you don’t know that._ ” 

“Sure, dude.”

“ _Marisol!_ ”

“You did hide in it enough times,” Marisol says, cackling.

“ _Man, whatever!_ ” Lorenzo huffs, but he’s got a chuckle to it. “ _Aight, I’m at work. I’ma let you go. Later?_ ”

“Later,” Marisol acknowledges.

“ _No ditching!_ ”

“I wasn’t going t—”

_Click._

“…Rude,” Marisol says, pursing her lips.

Her eyes land on red.

There’s a bubbling in her chest that reminds her of waking up in the early AMs—too giddy to stay asleep and too excited for the possibility of a future to try and go back to bed.

Sixteen and in love.

Seventeen and secure.

Eighteen, nineteen, twenty—and at home.

And she’s never really stopped waking up sick to something, if she’s honest.

Just a different feeling of dread as the years continue to drag on.

Not that she wouldn’t find someone new.

But that _he_ wouldn’t be _it_ anymore.

Her eyes land on red.

And… _oof_.

She really hopes she doesn’t mess this up.

* * *

Roxanne’s is buzzing.

Mikey gives Rakeem a solid high-five-turned-chest-bump, and gives Grace a hug that lifts her off her feet.

“Someone’s in a good mood,” Grace says, a happy chortle escaping.

“You guys are dope,” Mikey says, grinning.

“Tell me somethin’ I don’t know,” Rakeem smirks, throwing an arm around his girlfriend. “Showstoppers of the century, that’s us.”

“Oh,” Grace says, eyes widening. She nods at the door. “Careful, I don’t think Mikey can agree with that.”

Rakeem glances at the entrance, and starts nodding approvingly in the way Mikey knows is supposed to lead to a laugh.

Rakeem barely hides his snicker. “You, uh— _ahem_ —you like _throwbacks_ , Mikey?”

“Wh—” Mikey frowns, looking over—

—at Marisol.

Walking towards them.

_In his hoodie._

“Holy crap,” he hears someone say, “she _kept_ that?!”

(Logically, from how far it sounds, he knows it has to be Walt coming back from the restroom.)

(…But logic’s kinda, _erm…_ gone out the window, at the moment.)

“Always love the return of the short hair,” Grace says, giving Marisol a hug. “How long was the last cut? Like—”

“Three years, yeah,” Marisol says, hugging her back.

Mikey’s pretty sure he blacks out for a moment.

She’s just…

Something else.

Something _better_.

And there’s really only one thought on his mind as Marisol makes her rounds, greeting old teachers and friends:

_I love you._

_I love you, I love you, I love you._

* * *

Marisol feels eyes on her during a stranger’s round at the mic.

Just one particular pair.

The only one she wants looking.

She debates tossing her hair back—just enough for her to see Mikey, since he’s seated diagonally behind her, between Grace and Walt.

See what the look on his face is.

See if it’s the same _Hit By A Train, Again And Again_ expression he’d had when she’d entered his field of vision for the first time tonight.

Slack-jawed, brow-raised, and completely frozen—until Rakeem clapped him hard enough on the back to revive his senses. He’d stammered something about nice clothes and _alco-patrol_ , so yeah.

Malapropisms mean he’s hers, still.

And maybe that’s making her heart soar even if this first dude’s bombing his act—maybe it means she can relax, at least a little, because there’s going to be something to say at the break before Walt’s turn, and now she knows she’s not walking into it with everything to lose.

So no, she doesn’t toss her hair back.

But she does look to the table beside theirs, where her teachers and Bob are.

And she does divert her eyes, for a millisecond, at the people seated behind her.

And hey, y’know what?

She spots a pair of dark eyes a little too late at glancing away.

Marisol lets herself smile.

And Mikey, trying to act fine, does too.

* * *

It’s two sets in before anyone gets up, and three before someone gets sick of them.

“ _Rip off the bandaid_ ,” Grace whispers, gently crossing over into plea territory. She’d switched seats with Lorenzo after a restroom break, and she’s got her still-full glass of ginger ale in hand. She tips it in Marisol’s direction, annoyance written all over her face. “Or I add some extra history to that thing.”

“What happened to your manners?” Marisol whispers back, smirking lightly.

“They got tossed out when you guys started reverting to teenagers.”

“Oh?”

Grace jabs a finger into the back of her shoulder.

“ _Ay_ ,” Marisol seethes.

“We had to deal with this before and it took so long,” Grace hisses. “We ain’t about it.”

Marisol doesn’t need to turn around to know she’s glaring in that scarier than Rita way. She clears her throat. “…Got it.”

“Thanks.”

“I’ll feel your gratitude better if you like, get your drink far away from me.”

“Oh, no,” Grace says, teetering her glass still, “this is here for insurance.”

Marisol turns, ever so slightly, brows knit and eyes reflecting a mix of insult and…eh, more insult, honestly.

Grace smirks.

“In ten years I won’t be surprised if we’re going to be on opposite ends of the law,” Marisol huffs, getting ready to stand.

“Girl, give me five.”

* * *

Walt nudges Mikey, harder than the last two times he’s done it tonight.

“ _Ay_ ,” Mikey whines, as lowkey as possible. “What?”

“Juliet’s on the move,” Walt whispers, as highkey as possible.

Jackie, at the other table, squints at them.

Mikey gives an awkward smile.

Walt gives his best impression of his mom not knowing how to handle him.

Jackie quirks a brow, but she’s off the clock, and frankly? A group of meddling kids might be what her old students need.

She turns back to the stage, and Mikey deflates.

No backup.

Just—

_Nudge_. “Hey.”

He blinks, because it doesn’t come from Walt.

Marisol’s bent down on his other side, a hand on his shoulder the way she does when she wants to pass a quiet remark. He’s keenly aware of how close her face is to his own, and suddenly he’s not sure if he’s gonna make it to Walt’s set.

“Um,” Marisol says, swallowing her pride and whatever’s left in her dry throat, “can we talk outside?”

Mikey nods before he realizes he’s doing it.

“We’ll be back before yours,” Marisol says to Walt.

“Just make sure he remembers how to breathe,” Walt says, shooing them away.

“Diva,” Marisol jokes quietly as she passes by him.

“Soap star,” Walt throws back easily.

Mikey lets him have the dig—he’s too busy following his favorite human out the door and trying not to pass out while doing it.

* * *

Katie drops a tray of drinks off at the college grads’ table.

“We didn’t order anything,” Lorenzo says, brows furrowed. 

“Easy, kid,” Katie says, watching him flinch, turning up and around to look for hidden cameras. She nods back at the door. “Figured you guys deserve a round for dealing with that all night.”

“…It’s been fifteen minutes,” Rakeem says, doing the math.

“Twenty with the intros,” Rita adds, face scrunched.

“Sick math,” Walt says, giving her a fist bump.

“Just take it,” Gabe says, leaning over to their table. He motions to Katie. “She was being nice. She means dealing with that for _forever_.”

“ _Ohhh_ ,” the table says, dropping in thanks and gladly taking their rounds.

“You taught these guys for four years?” Katie says to Gabe, tucking the tray under her arm as she watches them clink glasses.

“Yup,” Gabe says proudly.

Katie shrugs. “Public education’s really taking a nosedive, huh?”

A beat, and Gabe squints.

Two, and Katie’s already back behind the bar.

Three, and—“ _Hey_!”

* * *

“Are you cold?” Mikey asks the second they step outside.

Not like he has a jacket with him, but y’know.

Marisol squints at him, and he notices the laugh she’s tamping down. “…Mikey.”

“Hmm?”

“I’m…” She snorts. “I’m wearing a hoodie.”

…Right. “Oh.” Moron = him. “Right. Yeah. I know that.”

“I’m wearing, um,” she says, recontaining her laughter, “I—it’s, uh, your hoodie.”

Mikey nods. It’s like the last thing he knows how to do at this point. “I know that.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he says, and hey! Nice! He knows how to smile like a goofball, too! “You look good.”

Marisol quirks a brow. “Because I’m wearing your hoodie?”

Mikey shakes his head. “Because you’re you.”

“Oh.”

“I mean—” Mikey flounders, flashing red, “—I, I mean—”

“I got it,” Marisol says, smiling equally dorky.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“…Huh.”

Thank goodness for passing cars and a busy street, because _whoo boy_ , it gets quiet real fast.

They’re shuffling feet and trading awkward glances, smiles lighting up their eyes at the feeling of the cliff they both know they’re about to jump off of.

There’s something special about tonight.

The sun’s not all the way down yet—it’s summer in California, and not late enough for that to happen. Every time the door to Roxanne’s opens, they hear some laughter from the people they came with—Mr. Hayward has a very distinct laugh—and the easy music that tells them there’s an intermission. The street’s got some litter from fliers about a lost cat and the ever-present cigarette butt.

The air’s a little gross, and there are already some fully drunk folks stumbling around on the street, but there’s nowhere else they’d rather be.

They’re three feet apart and in seconds it’s down to one, and there’s nowhere they’d rather be, because there’s something special about tonight.

Golden hues mixed with purple and red reflect off their skin, their eyes, their hair. It’s so easy to tell when one of them starts smiling—highlights appearing immediately and destroying any semblance of a hidden feeling.

Mikey thinks it’s the most beautiful sight in his entire life.

“…How was Tisch?” Marisol asks, trying for politeness.

“Tough,” Mikey says. “But fun.”

“Cool.”

“…How’s the taco truck?”

“Making bank. I, uh, don’t have to pull extra jobs next year, actually. More free time,” she says, and he’s got an odd feeling that she’s dropping crumbs. 

“Oh, dope.”

“Your play’s out soon, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Nice.”

“You speak Spanish now,” Mikey blurts.

“I learned,” Marisol nods.

“Duolingo?”

“That owl is scarier than Big Show.”

Mikey snorts, sucking his lips in to control his laughter.

“ _I’m serious_ ,” Marisol says, laughing when he fails. “I’m serious!”

“It’s a cartoon!”

“It has very persistent emails!”

Mikey cackles. “So you caved?” 

“Hey, that worked for you,” Marisol says, grinning wide as she pokes him in the chest.

They both freeze.

Three feet to one.

One foot to none.

“…What, um,” Mikey says slowly, still dealing with the remains of raucous laughter, “what’d you wanna talk about?”

Marisol pulls her hand away. She clears her throat, purses her lips, and glances at the windows, where their friends are.

Sends them a silent thanks.

Turns back to the guy she’s hoping to spend the rest of her life with.

“I—” Marisol says, eyes locked on his, “—I miss you.” Pause. “Being with you. Telling you everything.” She shoves her hands into her hoodie pocket, fingers picking at each other inside. “I miss messing with you during scary movies, and dancing with you at events, and—I don’t know, I miss watching you on stage,” she continues, a huff and a sigh as she keeps on smiling. “I miss telling people how proud of you I am. I miss your laugh. Your dimples. The weird gravity-defying thing your hair does—”

“Dang, and you were on a roll,” Mikey jokes, moving closer.

Marisol frowns up at him, a hand up to point sternly. “It’s not normal, Mikey.”

“It’s mousse!” 

“It stays up without anything!” 

“That’s—”

She raises a brow.

He clicks his tongue. “…Yeah, okay.”

“Thank you.”

“But _you’re_ not normal either.”

Marisol frowns again, a little more incensed. “ _Hey_ —”

“You’re too smart, and you work harder than anybody else, and there’s no way I could miss you more than I do right now,” Mikey says, gently taking her hand in his. He moves it down, between them, and stays still. “I miss hugging you, and sitting beside you. I miss listening to you. I miss saying stupid stuff in front of you, and surprising you with presents, and roasting people with you, and—and not understanding your homework.”

Marisol laughs, adjusting her hand in his, fingers intertwining. “How many romantic leads have you played now?”

“Enough to know I’m still super in love with you,” Mikey says, smiling softly at her.

“That’s good,” Marisol says, tilting her chin up, and—

“Yo, Walt’s almost—oh, oops,” Lorenzo says from the doorway, immediately wishing to be eaten by a chupacabra. 

Marisol sighs.

Mikey slumps. 

“Just uh,” Lorenzo says, putting a hand over his eyes, and waving them off with the other, “just pretend I’m not here. And, _action_!”

“Moment’s ruined,” Marisol says, taking out her phone and walking away from Roxanne’s.

Mikey frowns. “Where are you—”

“I’m going to yell at Walt through text before I do it in person.”

“…Good deal.” Mikey turns to Lorenzo. “Tell Walt he’s dead.”

“Aye-aye,” Lorenzo says, a hand still covering his eyes as he salutes and returns to their table.

Mikey steps towards the door. His hand reaches out, cool metal under his palm, but he doesn’t turn it.

It’s just…

There’s something special about tonight.

It's not because they're all together and everything's basically fixed. It's not because there's a giddy rush in his veins and a fire from a touch of hands.

It's because he knows this is when he's getting his answer.

“Marisol,” he calls, crystal clear over the traffic beside them.

She turns, raising a brow, frantic fingers paused over her phone screen.

“After dinner,” he says, smiling lopsidedly. “Were you gonna do it?”

She squints, beyond confused.

He’s looking a little too proud of himself now. “Were you gonna kiss me?”

Marisol breaks into a grin, huffing with the movement. She tries to hold it down. “No.” She purses her lips, cheeks rising. “…But I wanted to.”

“Okay,” Mikey says, turning the door handle.

“Mikey!”

He pauses, peeking over his shoulder.

“Are you serious?” Marisol says, arms spread and shoulders raised. She’s laughing, and he thinks it’s still funny to get her riled up like this.

Mikey grins, walking back. “I thought you said the moment’s ruined?”

She tucks her phone away. “There are multiple moments.”

“Is this one?”

_Shrug_. “It could be, I don’t know.”

“Walt’s about to start.”

“Walt’s not in love with you.”

Mikey’s lips twitch. “I hope not.”

Marisol’s smile softens. “I’m in love with you.” 

A pause, just long enough for the words to sink in.

Just long enough for gravity to pull every weightless feeling they have down to the moment.

To this moment. 

“… _Still_ in love with you.”

Mikey smiles back.

There’s something special about tonight.

And it’s entirely a good kind.

* * *

“I want it on the record that _I’m_ why they’re back together,” Walt says, tapping the table before getting up to head to the mic.

“That’s not how that works,” Grace says.

“Just let him have it, babe,” Rakeem says, shaking his head.

Walt swings the mic after he takes it from Katie, gesturing to her with a bow. “Thanks for the intro, Katie! Hey, everybody—how are you guys doin’?” He holds up two fingers. “Your _Good Time_ level is equal to how wrong you answer this question: How many fingers do I have up?”

“Four!” someone in front yells.

“You have fingers up?” someone by the bar says, in a voice best described as sloshy.

“Katie, I think that guy needs some water,” Walt says with an easy grin as the crowd laughs along. “No shade brother, I been there,” he adds, working the small stage confidently, throwing the guy a thumbs up. “I’m actually three years sober—yeah, thanks, thank you—I’m three years sober, but I gotta say, after the week I just had, it made it real hard to keep that streak alive.” He makes a face that draws out a laugh from the room, save for the table he’d come from. “Know what I’m sayin’? _Relationships_ , man. _Messy_.”

“Uh-oh,” Rita says, but she’s snickering.

“He wouldn’t,” Rakeem says.

“He would,” Lorenzo and Grace say.

Walt leans on the mic stand, relaxed and sly and very aware that two of his friends are just now walking into the room. 

Mikey looks confused.

Marisol quirks a brow.

Walt grins. “So…I have these friends…”

* * *

###  _part iv._

It’s 7:21.

The hoodie’s at the bottom of the pile.

Mikey’s hoodie.

Marisol figures there’s a reason she found it there—under her largest, thickest, most stockpiled mountain of laundry.

Figures the reason is she’s had midterms all week and it is _exhausting_ to be in law school, and she’s definitely been too busy for laundry for the last three weeks.

And it’s worse because she’s way too far from everyone she loves.

…Except Grace, because Grace is making bank on remote work—what with her superstar boyfriend having a killer rookie year and a lot of sponsors to manage—and is paying more than she has to for rent in their shared apartment.

“Oh, you found it!” Grace says, appearing at her bedroom door. 

“Is it weird that I want to curl up in a ball and hug this nasty thing?” Marisol deadpans, holding up the hoodie.

“No.”

“Thank you.”

“But you’re asking the weird one in the friend group.”

“…Can’t you just let me have one thing?”

Grace grins. “No.”

“You’re evil,” Marisol says, pointing at her.

“I pay rent early and clean up after myself. I can’t be evil.”

“I swear, if you weren’t a unicorn of a roommate…”

“Ha!” Grace scoffs, returning to the living room. 

Marisol follows her, pouting. “What ‘ _ha_ ’?”

“Just ‘ha.’”

“Yeah, right, that wasn’t a _neutral_ —”

_ZZZZT._

Grace frowns. “Did you order something?”

“No,” Marisol says, walking to the door. “Bet it’s for upstairs again.”

“ _Ugghhh_ ,” Grace groans, falling back on the couch. “If it’s for them, it’s your turn. I don’t wanna feel like I’m getting socially dissected today just because I don't work in an office.”

Marisol pouts. “It’s like you don’t care that I just had the worst month of law school ever, have to catch up on three week’s worth of chores, and am emotionally a mess.”

“It’s not my fault that coffee doesn’t work on you anymore and even _less_ of my fault that Mikey got the part for the thing.”

“A _mess_ , Grace.”

“…Fine,” Grace says getting up and dragging her feet to the door.

“Heh,” Marisol says, unlocking the door. “Love you, G.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

_Click_. _Squeeeak_. “Hey, so we didn’t order a—”

_Blink_.

“Oh, that’s not for upstairs,” Grace says, surprised. She waves robotically. “Hey, Mikey!”

Mikey nods back with a smile, a familiar, nostalgia-inducing, bag of takeout in his hands.

Marisol frowns, squinting at her boyfriend in all his _Hoodie And Shades Because I’m Kind Of A Celebrity Now_ glory. “I thought the movie’s shooting in Georgia?”

“The movie’s shooting in Georgia,” Mikey says, grinning. He’s bouncing a little.

Marisol looks at the bag. Her brows knit. “This is from—”

“Yeah.”

“You brought food from our place in Long Beach to…Stanford.” 

“Yeah.”

“Instead of going to your movie shoot. In Georgia.”

“Yeah.”

She tilts her head. “…Why.”

“So you know how Walt roasted us last year when we got back together?” Mikey says, bouncing a little more now.

Marisol doesn’t know where he’s going with this. “Yeah, we didn’t talk to him for a week.” She shrugs. “Why?”

“He brought up this really dumb thing I did,” Mikey grins, and something spikes in Marisol’s pulse.

Something…

Huh.

Wait.

Not the— 

“Specifics, Michael,” Grace says from well-behind Marisol, phone out and recording, because her sixth sense is knowing when a big play’s coming.

Mikey’s nose scrunches up for a second—a habit formed from watching his girlfriend do it every time she had an especially great gift to give him. He hands Marisol the colorful paper bag. “So, um. You should open this.”

Marisol takes it.

It’s reds, yellows, greens, and blues in bold lines and strong shapes. The logo reminds her of napkins with bleeding ink from when they’d study at the restaurant during dates close to finals. The wrinkling sound of the paper echoes laughter—the kind you get alone in a back booth because you’re tired and you’ll laugh at anything, but also the kind you get when you’re celebrating a birthday at the biggest table in the center of the restaurant with all your friends, and even with everything going on around you, your eyes keep ending up on one person and theirs on you. 

She looks up at Mikey, and there’s a silent conversation when she opens the bag.

‘Cause you know what?

It’s way too light to be food.

And she feels superhuman knowing what the black velvet box has inside.

**Author's Note:**

> <3
> 
> God bless ya fam and stay safe <3 comments and kudos apppppreciated <3


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